


Burn

by daltoneering



Category: Glee
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Sex, Dragon Riders, Fantasy, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of past Kurt/Sebastian, Mild fantasy action/violence, Romance, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daltoneering/pseuds/daltoneering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Hummel is widely regarded as one of the best dragon riders of his order. He’s efficient, clever and responsible—so it’s natural for him to be named tutor to the newest rider to join the order, Blaine Anderson. However, with trouble starting to brew in the North and a worrying amount of very distracting feelings about his young student, Kurt finds he has a lot more on his plate than he anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I want to say a HUGE thank you to my wonderful beta, [undefinedkosmos](http://undefinedkosmos.tumblr.com), without whom this fic would be and awful mess and probably wouldn’t have been submitted on time. Also, check out the amazing art! Go shower [Nina](http://soundsaboutrighttumblr.tumblr.com) in love for it. And a shout-out to [Beth](http://chriscolfuck.tumblr.com) for cheerleading and keeping up my morale!
> 
> Read on [LJ](http://kirwanraemus.livejournal.com/1754.html) | [FF.Net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10178796/1/Burn) | [S&C]() | [Tumblr](http://daltoneering.tumblr.com/post/79265038762/khbb-fic-burn)

The first thing Kurt was told when he arrived at the capital was that he should never let his feet get the better of him.

Upon hearing that particular piece of advice, he felt didn’t really need to pay much heed to it. A shy, thirteen-year-old boy who plans to spend more time training in the academy than doing anything else doesn’t really need to worry about straying too far. And stray he didn’t.

But now, he thinks as he pushes through a gaggle of people surrounding a busy cockfight ring, he really should have listened more carefully. He’s been in this city for fourteen years and he has absolutely no idea where he is. He left the academy under an hour ago, so he couldn’t be too far away, right? The city may be big, but it’s not _that_ big, not big enough for one of the most highly -regarded riders in the order to go and _lose_ himself in it.

A drop of water lands on his cheek, and he pulls the hood of his mantle up with a frustrated huff. At least the rain will help clear the streets of the hordes of people slowing him down. The alleyway he’s in suddenly flashes brightly with lightning, illuminating the splashes of mud on hems and dark faces hooded against the rain.

Turning out of the alley, he promptly steps in a deep puddle. He lets out a groan; these are his favourite boots. He shakes his foot off, grimacing at the wet slosh and squelch when he puts it down again. Another streak of lightning flashes high above, revealing familiar surroundings. With a sigh of relief, he tightens his mantle around his shoulders and heads back towards the academy.

The imposing building stands tall above its surroundings, turrets rising high and topped with white and blue flags that whip in the wind. It rises up on top of the taller of the two hills around which the city is clusters; the other houses the castle, a river running between the two and out the south wall towards the sea.

Darkness has almost properly fallen when he finally gets to the gate set into the grey stone walls that surround the academy, but the warm golden light spilling from the large ground floor windows are enough to illuminate the lawn up to the front doors. Kurt nods at the guards as they let him in and hurries up the hill, clutching his hood tightly to stop it slipping from his head.

Thunder crackles just as he gets under the porch and bangs on the weathered oak of the door. There’s a creak and the sound of wood sliding against wood. Then a pair of eyes squints at him through a hatch in the door.

“Sir Hummel!” Kurt calls, loud enough to be heard over the slashing rain. The eyes squint at him again and then disappear when the hatch closes. A few seconds later the smaller ease-of-access inlaid door opens and warm golden light washes out over the porch.

Kurt steps through hurriedly, pushing back his hood and nodding at the doorman. It’s blessedly warm and dry inside, the entrance hall brightly lit by the huge wooden chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Opposite him, a grand stone stairway lined with well-worn red felt leads up to the balcony. Rows of arches along each wall of the hall lead to the training rooms, stables, and well-loved kitchens. It’s nowhere near as grand as the castle on the opposite hill, but it’s a welcome haven after a frustrating, cold and wet trip into the city.

There’s a young woman standing at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in the brown and red that identifies her as a philosophy student. She had been scuffing her toes into the worn paving flags in boredom, but looks up when she hears him enter.

“Sir Hummel!” she calls. Kurt pauses on his way to the stairs, raises an eyebrow. “Lord—Lord Drin would like to see you in his office, sir.” She wrings her fingers while she waits for him to follow her.

Kurt stifles a sigh. He could nearly feel the soft tendrils of steam from a hot bath lapping around his shoulders. But Lord Drin is chief of the order; duty comes before any form of relaxation. He nods.

The girl hurries off through one of the nearby archways—Lord Drin’s study is situated near the training rooms, for ease of access. He glances up the stairs in the direction of his room, thinking sadly of his postponed bath, and follows her.

The door to the office is open a crack, and yellow light spills out into the dark corridor. He can hear muffled voices inside. The young girl sent to fetch him hesitantly reaches up to knock, a brief _tap tap_ of her knuckles against the wood. The voices stop.

“Come in,” calls Lord Drin, and the girl opens the doorway properly, nodding her head and gesturing him forward. “Sir Hummel, m’Lord.”

“Thank you, Nessa. You may go now.” Nessa nods again and ducks out of the room, leaving Kurt standing alone by the doorway.

Lord Drin is seated at his desk, chin propped on his weathered fingers and his dark eyes piercing Kurt’s across the room. There’s someone sitting in front of the desk, but the back of the chair is too high for Kurt to make out who it is.

“Approach.” Drin’s voice has a warm quality in its age, at odds with his sharp eyebrows and pointed chin.

Kurt advances towards the desk hesitantly. Does he want him to sit—is he meant to acknowledge Drin’s other guest?

“Kurt.” Lord Drin is one of the only people who calls him by his first name. “I’d like you to meet Blaine Anderson, your new student.”

Student? _Student?_ Kurt’s mind reels. Only the riders considered the very best in the order are given students to take on and train. The fact that Lord Drin has chosen _him_ to do so is the highest compliment—

“Hello, Sir Hummel.”

Kurt’s mind had blanked so quickly at Drin’s words that he hadn’t even turned to the person sitting next to him. He does so now, and—

Oh God.

Bright, hazel eyes glinting up at him in the flickering light from the candles, casting shadows over golden skin and soft dark curls, the hint of toned muscles in his bare forearms, a neat, compact body twisted towards him and Kurt has to remember to stop his mouth from _dropping open_.

“It’s a—a pleasure to meet you,” he manages to get out, tipping his head in respect. He lowers himself into the other chair by the desk. Drin’s watching him closely, and he avoids his eyes, glancing quickly back at the boy leaning forward in his chair. “I’m sorry,” he says, “this is all just—“

“A shock?” Drin’s eyes are kind.

“A bit. Yes.”

Lord Drin smiles. “It’s a privilege for you, Kurt. I considered many of the other senior riders in appointing Anderson’s tutor, but came to the conclusion that you would be the best fit.”

Kurt swallows. Anderson is still watching him, and he doesn’t want to stare too long because there’s no guarantee that this lighting will cover up his blush. Fuck, how is he going to cope with having to give him _lessons_?

He nods. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

Lord Drin sits up straight and shuffles some sheets of parchment on his desk. “I’m sure you must be wondering why this is happening so suddenly, but I’ll let young Anderson do the talking. He knows his story better than I do. In fact,” he glances at the heavy rain outside through the window, “I’ll leave you two to discuss in peace. If I hurry I may be able to eat some left over dinner.”

He pats Kurt’s shoulder on his way around the desk. The door shuts behind him with a heavy thud, leaving the two of them in silence.

Kurt crosses his legs then uncrosses them, watching the boy cautiously. Anderson doesn’t seem very eager to start the conversation, so he ventures, “When did you get here?”

The boy’s eyes snap up from where they had been surveying the stone slabs of the floor. “Wha—oh, this afternoon. It hadn’t started raining yet.” His gaze lifts to Kurt’s wet hair, and he raises a hand self-consciously, still annoyed that he hasn’t had his bath. Not that Anderson is any better off; the hem of his brown cloak is splattered with greying mud and his clothes look distinctly travel-rumpled.

“How far did you come?”

“West Moorland.” Kurt nods; a couple of day’s ride away. They’ve had riders coming from further off, even some from other kingdoms. “It was a—a bit of a hurry. Tarron was halfway dead when we got here, but they got us branded in time.”

Kurt nods. “Is that what you named her? Tarron?”

“Him. Yes.”

“What colour is he?”

Anderson smiles. “I think he’s going to be bronze.”

There’s a pause in their conversation in which Kurt looks at the brand still healing on Anderson’s bare forearm.  Each rider’s is different; this one has a compass-style eight pointed star set over a ring  of concentric circles, surrounded by a circle made up of tiny writing. The brands aren’t under the control of the brander or bearer, only taking form under the correct iron and spell. Each individual brand means something different. They can change shape over the course of the rider’s lifetime to take on different meanings based on the rider’s situation.

Kurt runs his fingertips over his left wrist, where his own brand shimmers black and silver. He knows every detail of it like the shape of his face; the small lone circle crossed by six spokes that are surrounded by a ring of fire. He’s still unsure of the meaning, though, and knows that the same goes for most riders until they have reached a certain level of maturity and age.

Kurt clears his throat. “So, um, Anderson—“

“Can you call me Blaine?”

Kurt pauses. “Oh. Yes. That’s fine. Blaine. Um, you were going to tell me about—“

“About what happened, yes.” Blaine settles back into his chair and picks at a loose thread on the rolled up cuff of his sleeve. “I’m older than most other novice riders, aren’t I?”

Kurt is painfully aware of that fact—most new riders are found around puberty, but Blaine looks sixteen, maybe seventeen. “You’re a bit older than most, yes. But that’s not unheard of.”

Blaine nods, and shifts his position again before beginning to speak. “My family, um. My family isn’t very well off; we have a small farmstead and cattle but nothing—nothing more than we need to be self-sufficient. So when I found Tarron, we were all a bit… shocked, I think.”

“How did it happen?”

“My brother and I were in the village selling cheese and we—well, _I_ , I was getting some more packages from the cart, and I heard a weird, um, screech? And I had no idea where it was coming from, it just sounded like maybe kids playing or something, but then I heard it again, and again, and. And I looked into the cart and he was just sitting there.”

Kurt smiles, remembering his first meeting with Aera. “How long had he been there, do you think?”

“I don’t know, I mean, he might have been hiding in the back all the way to the village, or he might have hopped in whilst we were selling—anyway, he must have hatched a least a couple of days before because he was already starting to fade, and everyone knows that a dragon has to be branded within a week of birth. I was, well, pretty stunned, but he just waddled forward and butted my arm with his head and—well.” He holds up the unbranded arm, showing Kurt the glowing bruise near his elbow. “I kind of shrieked, and Cooper, my brother, looked over, and then he shrieked too and—it was all a bit chaotic, especially because there were quite a few people at the stall.”

Kurt watches Blaine talk, the light dancing in his eyes as he continues his tale of how he left almost immediately to get Tarron to the academy in time. The soft lines of his smile, the shy dip of his head, the golden glow of candles against his skin—God, even the rich tones of his voice are beautiful. He becomes increasingly animated as he speaks, hands gesturing and eyes widening and Kurt can’t help a broad grin stretch across his lips.

“Anyway, I got here just in time and the mages were a bit thrown but they sent us to the branding room and we got them done, then I took Tarron up to the Rafters and came back down and then—met you.”

Kurt smiles at him, nods. There’s a slightly awkward silence in which neither man meets the other’s eyes, then Kurt stands up.

“Well,” he says. “You made it on time, and you’re here now. And probably exhausted.” Blaine ducks his head, shrugs slightly. “Did Lord Drin tell you where your rooms were?”

“No, he only said they were adjacent to my mentor’s.”

Kurt inhales quickly, but it’s quiet enough that Blaine doesn’t hear. “Do you want to… go up now?”

“Sure.”

Blaine gathers up the knapsack on the floor next to his chair and his muddy cloak. Kurt silently gestures him to follow and leads him out of the room.

They make light conversation on the way up, and Kurt stops a passing squire to ask him to have some food brought up for them both. They stop outside the door to Blaine’s rooms, only a little down the corridor from Kurt’s own.

“So,” he says, unsure what to do with his hands. “These are your rooms. There’s a little sitting room and a bedroom and a bathroom. There is also bell pull next to the fireplace if you need anything. And I’m right next door, just down here.”

Blaine nods in understanding, his hand resting on the door handle. “When do, um, when do my lessons begin?”

“Come and find me in the Rafters after breakfast tomorrow, and we’ll start from there. Don’t worry, I’ll go gentle on you.” He thinks the little teasing smirk might be a bit much, but Blaine simply ducks his head and opens the door.

“Goodnight then, Sir Hummel.”

“Goodnight, Blaine.”

As soon as the door is closed behind him, Kurt’s head thunks against the wall, eyes closed. How he is going to cope with this, he has absolutely no idea.

He makes his way blindly throughout the castle, letting his feet carry him, until he finds himself standing at the archway that leads to the Rafters.

The smell is – well, exactly how you would expect an oversized owlery to smell, the floor of the huge room littered with old hay and dirt. The high, circular walls are littered with cave-like entrances to smaller rooms, nearly forty in total, all the way up from ground level to the rim of ceiling surrounding an open sky. It’s not very full at the moment, so mostly quiet, but soft grunts and gentle shrieks linger on the air.

Kurt wanders towards the middle of the room, hands tucked around his sides. He stops by the mounting block set up there, and looks up towards the Eastern wall.

“Aera!” he calls, voice carrying off the high walls and reverberating around the chamber.

There’s a snuffle, a scratching noise, then a loud wing beat as Aera’s face appears in the entrance to one of the higher sub-rooms.

“Come,” he commands.

Watching a fully-grown dragon fly is an overwhelming experience, even for a seasoned Rider. He’s brought Aera up from when she was the tiniest hatchling until she became the great, majestic beast she is now, and he’s still not quite used to it. Her wide wings don’t quite extend fully on the way down—they’re barely needed, really, she mostly just leaps to the floor—but they sparkle slightly in the light from the beacons hanging on the wall. It glances off her silvery scales, making her seem to glow, and Kurt grins.

“Hey, girl,” he says when she lands neatly in front of him. He holds out his hand and she nudges the tip of her snout into his palm, warm and solid. Kurt strokes over it, then moves closer so he can wrap his arms around her neck.

She may be fully-grown, but she’s not the biggest dragon he’s seen. Her main body, neck and head are about three people tall, but well-filled out. She carries herself the way he would imagine dragon royalty to move, with poise and dignity and pride. She’s absolutely beautiful.

He can’t get his arms all the way around her neck, but he rests his forehead and enjoys the warmth he feels there, herald of the fire in her belly. She nuzzles at his back, hot breath sending puffs of warmth down his spine.

He pulls back and sits on the top step of the mounting block. Aera settles down in front of him, talons scratching the floor, staring at him.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, and she dips her head, a silent _good_. Kurt smiles. Dragons can’t talk but their expressions are as clear as any eloquently worded sentence.

“There’s a new rider,” he says softly, and Aera straightens up, looking at him interest. “Well, he’s not a rider yet, but he will be.” He pauses. “Lord Drin, um, he asked me to train him.”

Aera’s head lifts up, and she bares her teeth, an approximation of a grin. (When they had first met, it had taken Kurt several weeks to realise she wasn’t growling at him.) She nudges his shoulder with her snout. _Well done_.

Kurt huffs a breath of laughter. “Well, yeah, but… I’ve never trained anyone before, Aera. And he’s—he’s older. Not like any of the other students.”

Aera’s head tips sideways in confusion.

“He’s—I don’t know. I’m excited but at the same time I’m so, _so_ nervous.”

She moves closer to him, blowing a soft breath over his face that ruffles his hair. Kurt pushes her away, laughing, and remembers his errand in the town earlier in the day. “Oh!” he says. “By the way. I got you something.”

Her tail flicks, almost like a dog’s wag, and she waits eagerly as he fumbles in his bag. He finally finds the carefully wrapped package, and pulls it out onto his lap. Aera sniffs at it when he begins to pick at the strings, but he pushes her away.

He slides the paper off to reveal a beautifully woven length of decorative rope, intertwined with gold and silver and different colours of ribbon. He slides it between his hands, admiring the way it picks up the light and complements her skin.

“It’s your coming of age ceremony in a month, and I know that you’re getting a new saddle harness from the academy already, but I—wanted to get you something myself. I was thinking I could embroider it to the harness for you, just along the edges. To make you look even more beautiful.”

Aera lifts her head up and crows, sending out a streak of bright blue and orange flame towards the night sky above. Her eyes are dancing when she looks back down at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” chuckles Kurt, folding the rope up again and putting it back in his bag. He glances towards the door and sighs. “I should go,” he says. “First day of training tomorrow.”

Aera nuzzles close to him, and he hugs her tightly. “Love you,” he mumbles into the warm hardness of her scales. She hums back, and he closes his eyes happily.

*

The next morning, Kurt awakens with a twisting feeling in his stomach, nerves and anticipation and maybe some excitement. He only eats a light breakfast, too worried about upsetting his digestion, and makes sure he is well-presentable in his dark blue rider’s tunic and soft leather leggings. He forgoes his cloak. They’ll mostly be inside today and he wouldn’t want to embarrass himself in front of his new pupil by getting caught up in it.

The Rafters are cool and mostly empty by the time he gets up there; the majority of the dragons out on their morning flight. Aera must smell him come in, because she leaps down from her bedroom and sends the hay littering the floor up in a cloud of dust.

 _How are you feeling?_ the tilt of her head asks, and Kurt shrugs.

“Nervous. But not in a bad way.”

Aera’s unblinking eye peers down at him with a hint of mischief and he swats her away. She croons quietly and puffs a cloud of smoke at him. Kurt coughs and laughs and blows her a kiss.

They don’t have to wait for long before there’s a nervous tapping from the archway and Kurt looks up to see Blaine poised on the threshold, hand raised against the wood. He’s dressed in the traditional rider-in-training robes, soft green and blue. Kurt schools his face into a neutral expression and stands, gesturing him over.

“Blaine, good morning,” he says, maybe a little too brightly, but it appears Blaine is too busy staring at Aera in awe to notice.

“A full-sized dragon,” he breathes. He’s stopped a few feet away from them, probably nervous to approach any nearer. Kurt holds out his hand and he moves forward.

“This is Aera,” says Kurt. “She’s very friendly; don’t worry.”

Aera watches his student with an amused gaze that Kurt knows Blaine won’t be able to pick up on. The boy holds out his hand tentatively, and she brushes it with the tip of her snout. Blaine gasps.

“I, um, hello, Aera. I’m Blaine.”

The dragon snorts and nudges his shoulder, a gesture Kurt recognises as a friendly greeting. Blaine jumps back but Kurt is quick to reassure him that everything is well.

“I think it’s time we met Tarron,” he tells Blaine, gesturing at him to follow him up the steps of the mounting block. “Go ahead and call him down.”

“What, just call his name, and he’ll come?”

Kurt nods, smiles at Blaine to reassure him. Blaine clears his throat and straightens his tunic.

“ _Tarron_!” he calls out, voice loud and echoing around the near-empty chamber.

There’s a snuffling sound and then a small, shiny head peeks out from one of the lower sub-rooms, eyes blinking wide and blearily in the light. Blaine grins.

The little dragon hops down from his nest. He’s only about four feet high at the withers, little nubs along his back that are the beginnings of sharp spines. He clacks his teeth at Blaine and flaps his wings a bit then scuttles over the floor towards them.

“He can’t fly yet.” Kurt can hear the fondness in Blaine’s voice as he jumps down from the mounting block and strokes Tarron’s head, scratching across his scales and around his eyes.

Aera watches the proceedings from the far side of the mounting block, head held high. Kurt can tell that if she had human features one of her eyebrows would be gracefully raised.

She snuffs, and Tarron freezes, glancing with wide doe-eyes at Kurt’s dragon. Blaine stands and moves out of his way as Tarron stumbles across the ground—he’s so small he can barely walk in a straight line yet, tipped from side to side by the weight of his wings—and stops before the mounting block. He peers over the top of a step, gazing up at Aera.

She rumbles in her chest and he cowers behind the block. But then Aera’s leaning over, neck long and extended, and blowing a small puff of air over his head.

Tarron squeaks, actually squeaks, and makes an attempt at covering himself with his wings. Kurt can see Aera’s smile though, even if the little dragon can’t, and he hops down too, momentarily making Tarron jump.

“I think they’re going to get along excellently,” he says to Blaine, eyes on the two dragons as Tarron becomes more inquisitive. “Aera’s friendly. I think she likes him.” He glances over at Blaine as he speaks, catches the blush on his cheeks and immediately looks away again. “We should probably start your training now, though.”

Blaine nods, and they set to work.

They spend the first part of the day becoming accustomed to being around the other’s dragon—not really a problem for Kurt, Tarron is _tiny_ by his standards, but Blaine’s never really been this close to a fully-grown dragon before. They leave the dragons for their own lunch of raw beef and head to the mess hall for their own, sitting apart from the other knights and students so that they can talk about the plans for Blaine’s training.

After lunch, Kurt introduces Blaine to Santana: the academy’s weapon master and protégée of the King. She’s vicious, like the blades she’s so protective of, but Kurt’s lucky to call her a friend and knows that there’s a softer layer underneath. He takes Blaine on a brief tour of the stables and training rooms, then hands him a blunted sword off a rack and faces him in the middle of the floor.

“Um,” says Blaine, “what—“

“Go on,” prompts Kurt. “I need to assess your close combat skills before I can start teaching you anything about it. Lunge at me.”

Blaine still looks slightly confused, but weakly swings his sword forward in Kurt’s direction, missing him by about a foot. Kurt sighs and lowers his own weapon.

“A little more than that, Blaine, come on. I know you’ve got it in you.”

“But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Blaine moves properly this time, shifting his weight, arm extended, and Kurt blocks his blade neatly. “Good,” he says. “Again.”

Blaine’s not awful, from what he can tell, but he’s certainly not a born fighter. He hasn’t got the strength behind his movement or the technical skill of the knights Kurt is used to sparring with. But he knows it can be learnt, so when they finish, he smiles at him and pats him momentarily on the shoulder.

“You did well,” he says encouragingly. “I mean, there’s still a lot to learn, but I’m sure we’ll get there. And besides, combat is only a very small part of what it is to be a knight.”

He takes a breath and pauses, then holds his hand out for Blaine’s sword. “I think you’re going to be really good at this, Blaine, I honestly do.” He moves slightly closer, highly aware of the few inches that separate them, and speaks in a low voice. “Don’t repeat this to anyone, but there are a few in this order who… probably don’t really deserve to be here. The dragons don’t pick who they’ll hatch for on attitude towards others, after all.”

He makes himself move back and straightens his tunic, offering Blaine a twisted smile and sheathing his sword. “I, er, need to speak to Lord Drin. Update him on your progress. I’ll maybe see you at dinner?”

Blaine nods, and it’s slightly awkward for a few moments, then Kurt turns to leave the room.

“Sir Hummel, wait!”

He turns. Blaine is wringing his fingers in the hems of his sleeves, not meeting his eye. “I just, um. I don’t know how to get back to my rooms.”

Kurt manages to retain his smile and nods towards the door. “Come on, I’ll show you the way.”

*

He’s on his way to dinner, changed into a deep green tunic and short cloak, when he hears footsteps behind him. It surprises him; he’s late, and most people would be in the dinner hall by now.

He turns and the footsteps stop. The corridor is empty, but he’d just gone around a corner, so maybe…

He hurries over to the corner, and sure enough, someone is leaning against the wall there, hands in his pockets and ankles crossed, as if he were waiting for somebody.

“Sebastian,” Kurt exhales through clenched teeth. Sebastian simply raises an eyebrow at him, a small but nonetheless smarmy expression dancing across his face. “Care to explain why you were following me?”

“I’m surprised you ask, Kurt,” he says, pushing himself off the wall and right into Kurt’s personal space. “I was just on my way to dinner, after all.”

His voice is soft and low and dangerous, and Kurt hates that it still affects him, even though he’d banished every memory of _that_ from his mind months ago.

“Leave me alone, Sebastian,” he hisses.

Sebastian’s grin just grows wider and he lightly runs a finger down Kurt’s bicep, bending down so that his lips are level with Kurt’s ear. “Maybe we could skip dinner all together,” he breathes.

Kurt jerks away angrily, shoving Sebastian in the chest so that he stumbles backwards.

“I told you to leave me alone. I am _done_ with you, Sebastian, how long is it going to take you to understand that this is _over_?!”

Sebastian just laughs under his breath and reaches up to smooth over his hair. “I’ll believe it when you can prove it, Kurt.” The way his voice catches on the _t_ sends shivers of disgust down his spine. “I’ll catch you around, don’t worry.”

He turns casually and stalks off down the corridor, and Kurt is left standing there, fists clenched and head fuming.

He falls back against the wall, draws his hand over his face. _Ugh_. His thing with Sebastian had never been serious, it was just—a way to get off quickly and without the complication of going to one of the seedy dens in the city where people like _him_ could hide away in the night and enjoy themselves. Unfortunately, Sebastian had never really felt the same way, especially after it had become a more regular occurrence, and now Kurt hates himself for ever starting it.

He smoothes his tunic down and continues towards the dinner hall.

It’s loud and cheery inside, the prime moment of the day when all the knights and pupils and teachers are in the same room together. Kurt returns a few waves on his way over to his table.

He plonks himself down next to Santana, who’s busy tearing her way through a turkey leg, and grabs a hunk of bread and a dollop of stew. The food here is good, and he’s hungry and really not in the mood to make polite conversation after what just happened in the hall.

He finishes his stew about the same time Santana is done with her bone, and she turns to him with both eyebrows raised.

“So are you going to tell me anything about your new boy, Hummel?”

Kurt blushes and takes a large sip of wine from his beaker. “He’s my _student_ ,” he says under his breath. “I’m training him to be a rider.”

Santana laughs and plucks a dumpling from the bowl in front of them. “Sure, I got that when you brought him in and he fiddled with all my prize arrowheads. But are you going to tell me _about_ him?”

Kurt glances around to make sure Blaine is not nearby and that no one’s listening in. “He’s seventeen, but only just bonded,” he says. “Dragon’s name is Tarron, he’s sweet.”

“And is _Blaine_ sweet, too?”

“Santana, _God_. Will you lay it off for one moment?”

She smirks at him and eats the dumpling whole. “Okay, calm down. How’s Aera?”

“Fine. Excited about the ceremony.” He pauses, lump of bread halfway to his mouth. “Why do you care?”

Santana shrugs. “Just looking out for my boy.”

“You’re two years younger than me.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t look after you.”

Kurt rolls his eyes at her fondly. “And how are things in the armoury?”

She shrugs again. “Fascinating as ever. Although…” She glances around slightly and leans closer to him. “I did hear a couple of things when Drin and Vouton came in to look at the new shipment of blades we got in recently.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.” She pauses, checking up and down the table again. “Turns out the Northern Kingdom aren’t as happy about the accords as they’re letting on.”

Kurt sits back, frowning. The accords had been made months ago, a finalized version of the peace treaty between their two kingdoms. They were supposed to settle the dispute over the bountiful lands that made up the border. “Why aren’t they happy? And how does _Vouton_ know? He’s only a guard.”

“ _Chief_ guard, Hummel, have you not been keeping up with the gossip recently? Parker got kicked out because he was caught canoodling on the job.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, Vouton was a shoe-in for the post. Doesn’t make me like him any more though, snobbish little bitch.”

“Santana! You can’t say that about the chief guard.”

She shrugs. “He isn’t here to hear it, is he? Anyway, they were saying that there are people talking, in the North. It’s all petty stuff—someone got their chickens stolen or something, but apparently it means things are getting serious again. And get this.” She reaches under the front of her leather brigandine, producing a slightly crumpled letter. It bore the king’s seal, broken.

“How did you get that?” whispered Kurt.

Santana smirked at him. “Vouton isn’t the brightest. He forgot his coat when they left so I took the leisure of going through his pockets. It’s only a letter from the King’s secretary, but hey, I thought it could be important.”

Kurt frowns, flipping open the letter. It’s short and hastily written.

_Sir Vouton—_

_The king has received your letter and wishes to meet with you to discuss matters further as soon as possible. Your presence at the next council meeting will be much appreciated. Please ensure that you remain as secretive as possible about these matters._

“Huh,” says Kurt. “A meeting with the council? Something must really being going on.”

Santana nods and grabs the letter back, tucking it neatly down her front. She pushes herself up from the bench, finished with her food. “Look, I know I told you, but don’t go shouting this to the entire order of riders, got it, Hummel? If they found out how you know I do _not_ want to be the one getting my ass kicked.”

“Of course, I’ll keep it to myself.” He pauses, wiping his mouth. “Just so long as you do too.”

Santana raises a well-kept eyebrow at him. “Do I sense distrust, Kurtie? Thinking Auntie San is gonna give the game away?”

“No, I just. You know what I mean.”

She laughs at him fondly. “I do. See you later, dragon boy.”

“Bye.” Kurt looks down at the remains of his stew, and sighs, because things just got a whole lot more complicated.

*

Kurt finds himself surprised by how easy it is to work with Blaine. He’s eager and willing, a good listener, ready to learn—everything Kurt himself had tried to be when he arrived here years ago. It’s nice to have a pupil who he gets on well with, too; he can’t deny that Blaine is just as interesting as he is funny.

The training starts off simple. They do a lot of theory, the first couple of days, which Kurt knows Blaine must find boring as hell but he has to teach anyway if they want to get anywhere. Blaine doesn’t really seem to mind, though, just smiles and nods and makes another note in his book. Kurt even enjoys some of it—he can’t deny that the history of dragons and the riders is a little dull, but when they’re going over how dragons have different personalities depending on their colour, he feels right in his element.

After three days of theory, Kurt decides that they need to move onto more practical things. He arranges for them to meet the evening after they finally finish the history of the riders, and heads up to the Rafters early, excited about what he has planned to do with Blaine.

Aera greets him brightly—after all, he’s been busy, has barely visited her over the past few days—and waits patiently as he gets everything they’ll need ready. He’s just hauling a couple of leather straps across the room when he sees an inquisitive little head peep out of one of the sub-rooms near the floor. He dumps the straps next to Aera and crouches down.

“Tarron!” he calls softly. “Come on, come here!”

Tarron moves forward shyly, talons clacking carefully onto the wooden floor. Kurt beckons at him, attempting to be as encouraging as possible, and he slowly creeps his way over to them.

“Hello,” says Kurt, reaching out so that the little dragon can sniff his hand. “How’s it going?”

Tarron snuffs at his hand and squeaks at him, flapping his wings a bit. Kurt feels rather than sees Aera’s head hover about him, blowing warm air at Tarron, a common greeting among dragons. Tarron tries to reciprocate, but ends up sneezing instead. Kurt presses his lips together trying to suppress a laugh.

There’s the sound of footsteps from the doorway and he stands up, sees Blaine hurrying over to them.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” he pants. “I’m still working on finding my way around this place.”

Kurt smiles at him. “Hey, it’s fine, we’re in no hurry. I thought we would do something fun for your first official practical session. Sound interesting?”

Blaine’s eyes are bright. “Yes, very,” he exclaims, stroking Tarron’s head where the dragon is nuzzling at his belly.

Kurt watches them for a moment, smiling, then turns to his dragon. “Want to help me saddle Aera up, then?”

Blaine’s eyes go wide, grin stretching across his face in excitement. “Really? Riding on Aera?”

Kurt nods. “Tarron is still a bit small, I’m afraid.”

Blaine laughs and flits over, Tarron following him eagerly with a series of _clacks_ on the hard wooden floor. “What do I need to do?” he asks.

Kurt shows him how to assemble the leather saddle over the joint between the base of Aera’s neck and the top of her back, securing it in place with several straps under her chest and round her neck. Blaine flinches back a little when she swings her head round to sniff at him, but Kurt just laughs good-naturedly and pats Aera’s side. “Be nice, girl,” he reprimands.

Soon the saddle is fitted and held securely in place, and Aera unfurls her wings, stretching her nose up towards the open ceiling in anticipation of the flight. The sky above is streaked with golden clouds in the last rays of sunshine.

“You ready?” asks Kurt.

Blaine nods, a little sheepishly, and steps closer to the saddle. “Um, how do I—“

“Here.” Kurt gestures Aera over to the mounting block and Blaine climbs the stairs with a slight nervous stumble.

“You really want me to get on first?”

Kurt nods. “You’ll be fine. I’m going to sit in front of you, okay?”

Blaine nods hesitantly and moves to the edge of the block. There’s a gap between them and Aera, and he shuffles a little, obviously unsure of how to go about climbing onto her back.

Kurt moves closer, stepping across the gap with one foot to brace it against Aera’s side. He’s been in more perilous positions before. He holds out his hand to Blaine with an encouraging smile, and Blaine slides his palm in slowly, skin warm against Kurt’s. He fails to supress the shiver that trickles down his spine.

Kurt helps Blaine step across and straddle the dragon’s back, making sure he’s got his feet firmly in the set of stirrups at the back of the saddle. Blaine flails a little, then grabs onto the sides of the saddle behind his thighs. Kurt swings smoothly on in front of him, sliding his feet into the front pair of stirrups, and strokes Aera’s scales gently.

“You ready to go, big girl?” he says. Aera croons and sidesteps away from the block, shaking out her wings and sending ripples of muscles down her spine.

Blaine gasps behind him, and Kurt sees his hands flailing again out of the corner of his eye.

“Move forward,” he says simply.

“Wha- _whoa_ -what?”

“Move forward and wrap your arms around my waist. I don’t want you falling off.”

“Oh. Okay.” Blaine shuffles forward until Kurt can feel him pressed up against his back from hips to chest, warm and present and more than a little distracting. He swallows. Blaine slides his hands around his waist, gripping on gently to his sides, and Kurt breathes out slowly, glad that Blaine can’t see the blush painting his face. He waits until Blaine is settled (his breath is hot against the back of his neck, and Kurt forces himself not to think about it, not to think about leaning his head back onto Blaine’s shoulder and—) before nudging Aera’s shoulder with his toes.

She leaps into the air immediately, and Blaine draws in a sharp breath against his skin, arms tightening around his waist and pulling them even closer together. Kurt’s fingers tightened on Aera’s scales, and he pulls his mind away from the delicious warmth against his back and towards the task at hand.

They breach the opening in the ceiling, and even though Kurt has done this countless times before, he still feels himself slightly in awe of the city spread out around them. Lights twinkle in the soft darkness of dusk. The sky to the west is streaked with pink and purple and gold, and that’s the direction Aera takes, each beat of her wings propelling them forwards through the air.

Blaine’s tight grip on his waist loosens a little as he gets more comfortable, and Kurt feels him cry out in excitement, voice lost on the wind.

It’s a beautifully clear sky above them, stars beginning to peek through the deepening blue. Wind rushes through Kurt’s hair as they climb higher, chilling him, and he’s glad of the warmth of Blaine’s body plastered to his back. Aera doesn’t feel the cold so much with her thick layer of scales, so it’s up to him to decide when they’ve flown too high.

He lets go of her scales with one hand and presses it over where Blaine’s are clasped around his stomach. It’s a twist, but he manages to lean round enough to get his mouth closer to Blaine’s ear. “Try letting go!” he shouts about the wind and the _whoosh_ of Aera’s wings. A look of panic flashes over Blaine’s features, but he nods, and Kurt feels his fingers loosening around his waist. He turns back around and suddenly Blaine’s warmth is gone as his student stretches his arms out to the wind behind him.

“This is amazing!” Blaine yells, giving another _whoop_ then grabbing onto Kurt’s waist against as Aera sinks down into a dive.

They hurdle through the air, down towards the river that runs through the city, and fly close enough to the surface that Aera can run a talon through the water. The river narrows and they rise up again, just clearing a bridge. Kurt sense what his dragon is going to do next and grabs on tight to the scales in front of him, hoping that Blaine’s grip around his middle is tight enough.

Aera shoots upwards towards the stars, clearly enjoying herself, and lets out a tongue of fire in her wake. It brushes just past them with a burst of heat and is gone on the night sky. She twists forward, diving again, and Kurt feels his stomach swoop as she goes completely upside down, righting herself after a few seconds.

Blaine’s knuckles are white he’s holding on so tightly, and Kurt remembers when he used to be absolutely terrified of flying. He hopes that starting Blaine so early on, even if not on his own dragon, will accustom him to the experience so that he can avoid the months of torment Kurt went through.

They slow down as they reach the twin hills in the middle of the city, and Aera loops around the castle once before heading back to the Academy, great beats of her wings to steady her as they approach the open entrance to the Rafters.

It’s only a couple of seconds before she drops to the floor with a loud _thud_ , sending up clouds of hay and dust around her feet. Another dragon—green, long-necked, Sir Byran’s dragon—peers out of a sub-room to watch them landing. It’s quiet except for the sounds of their panting and the click of Tarron’s claws as he scuttles towards them from where he had been waiting by the wall.

Blaine doesn’t release his grip on Kurt’s waist for several moments; he has to gently tap the hands clutching his waist to remind him. Kurt definitely completely ignores the twang of regret as Blaine leans back, catching his breath, and swings a leg over Aera’s neck to slide off and land in a crouch.

“Come on,” he says to Blaine, holding up a hand to help him down. “Just slide off.”

Blaine looks a little wary, but swings his leg over as Kurt had done and lands with a _thud_ and a groan on his ass. Kurt tries not to laugh.

Tarron leaps onto Blaine, rubbing against his neck and tummy, and Blaine laughs, stroking over the dragon’s neck. “Whoa there, little guy. I was only gone a short while.”

Tarron huffs and licks the side of his face broadly, leaving behind a wet trail of saliva. Blaine looks absolutely disgusted, and Kurt does allow himself to laugh this time.

“He’d better grow out of this,” he mutters.

“Nah,” says Kurt, stroking his palm over the scales of Aera’s neck and feeling her blow a puff of air through his hair. “They never really grow up.”

Aera huffs fondly, and Kurt smiles at her. He’s glad she still has the same sense of humour and playfulness she had had at Tarron’s age. “Come on, get up,” he says to Blaine, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. Tarron looks affronted at being shoved out of his lap. “You need to learn how to take a saddle _off_ , as well.”

*

Santana, it seems, was right about what she had said about the troubles in the North. Kurt is called into Lord Drin’s office halfway through a lesson about the different types of arrow heads and their usages, and hastily apologises to Blaine, sending him off to bond with Tarron.

He’s not the only one invited, apparently. Lord Vouton is perched on the edge of Drin’s desk, cleaning underneath his fingernails with a short knife, and the king himself is standing by the fireplace with two of his advisors, their faces drawn. Lora Bolt, another rider, is sitting with her legs crossed and back straight in the chair next to Drin’s desk. The man himself is nowhere to be seen.

Kurt closes the door behind and goes to stand next to Lora. “What’s going on?” he asks quietly, but she merely shakes her head and motions for him to wait.

The door at the back of the office opens and Kurt is both surprised and annoyed to see Sebastian enter followed by Lord Drin. Sebastian smirks at Kurt and lounges against the wall behind Drin’s desk as the man takes a seat.

He coughs a couple of times before holding up his palm and gesturing for them to approach. Lora darts up, allowing the king to sit in the chair she had been occupying, and Vouton slides off the table and into the chair opposite.

Drin sighs and rubs over his eyebrows. “I’m sorry I had to call you here,” he says, voice gruff. “I wouldn’t have but—the situation in the North is a lot worse than we feared.”

The king nods, obviously already aware of what is happening, but Kurt notices Lora send him a confused look and shrugs. “Hummel, Bolt, I know that you aren’t entirely aware of the situation. I will fill you in later, but for now—“ He sighs again and produces a roll of paper from his coat.

“This is a message received at the castle early this morning. The messenger bore the colours of Artis in the northern province. It’s—it’s not good news.”

The room is silent as Drin unfolds the letter and clears his throat.

“’ _Urgent message for authorities. Northern border of county Artis is under attack. Two villages razed to the ground, one hundred and thirty men dead. Inhabitants are taking refuge in fort. Please send resources and reinforcements as soon as possible_.’”

“Shit,” Kurt hears Vouton breathe. He’s thinking the exact same thing, but would never dare even whisper the word in front of the king.

“The accords are not holding,” says one of the king’s advisors, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “Your highness, something must be done.”

The king nods, wearily, and looks at Vouton. “It was discussed,” he says slowly, “at a council meeting. We came to the agreement to act only in case of violence.”

“Then we must act!” says the other advisor.

“It’s not as simple as that,” butts in Vouton. “The army is small, and Artis is a long way away. This would be an expensive and taxing expedition, to save only a few villagers.”

Kurt feels anger bubbling in his chest at the guard’s words. “A few villagers?!” he exclaims. “One hundred and thirty men are dead, Sir, and I’m sure more will be that way if we don’t do anything.”

Vouton sends him a dirty look and opens his mouth to retaliate, but the king interrupts him.

“Who is this?” he asks Drin, eyeing Kurt over. It’s uncomfortable.

“Sir Hummel, your highness, the best rider I’ve got,” Drin says quietly. Kurt feels a little sparkle of pride in his chest, but tamps it down. This isn’t the time.

“I see.” He pauses, then turns back to the table. “I find myself agreeing with him, Drin. Something must be done.”

Kurt hears Vouton huff angrily. The king’s advisors nod, and Kurt chances a glance at Sebastian. He looks wholly bored.

The king pushes his chair back and stands up. “I want five hundred men sent within the week,” he orders. “And one rider and dragon. I’ll have my chief advisor organise the supplies. Thank you, Lord Drin.”

Drin bows his head respectfully and the king leaves the room, advisors on his tail.

Immediately, Vouton slams his hands onto the desk. “How can you let him do that, Drin? We will lose men, a loss that we can’t afford!”

“You have no guarantee that men will be lost, Vouton. And if they are—well, that’s a sacrifice that is necessary if we wish to protect our nation. Now I’m sure the king would appreciate it if you were to prepare your men for their departure. I will appoint you a commander and a rider to accompany them in due course.”

Vouton scoffs angrily and storms out of the room. Drin sighs heavily and leans back in his chair, covering his face with a hand for a few moments. Kurt and Lora cautiously take the two seats in front of his desk, and Sebastian continues to lean against the wall.

“This is all getting a lot more complicated than I had anticipated,” Drin mutters, then drops his hand and gestures at Sebastian to join them. He does so, grudgingly, standing a little too close to Kurt for comfort.

“You are three of my best riders,” he says, looking at each of them in turn. “The question is who will go.” He pauses, and Kurt is about to volunteer himself, but Drin silences him with a look.

“Sir Smythe?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How is Perra?”

Perra is Sebastian’s dragon. She had been injured in an excursion into the mountains a couple of months ago. Sebastian sighs. “I—I don’t know if she’d be up to it, sir. Her wing is still healing.”

Drin nods, but Kurt knows full well that Perra is absolutely fine and dandy. He glances at Sebastian, angry, but is simply received with a raised eyebrow and challenging look.

“Sir Bolt, how do you feel about travelling north to help with the counter-attack?”

Lora shifts uncomfortably in her seat, but nods, straight hair falling across her face. “I would be willing to do it, sir, to save the lives that are at stake. Yes. I will go, if I am needed.”

“Good.” Drin pauses, glances at Kurt, then back at her. “Then you shall go. Inform your dragon and prepare your departure. I will have Lopez check over your armour.”

Lora nods again, a little resigned, but determined. “Thank you, sir. I shall do my best to ensure victory.”

Drin smiles tiredly. “Good. You and Sir Smythe may leave now.”

They do, leaving Kurt alone with his former tutor.

“Kurt,” says Drin. He pauses for a long time, looking past him at something on the other side of the room.

“Is there a reason you don’t want to send me?” Kurt asks quietly, looking down at his hands. He’s not offended or annoyed—to be honest, he feels a little relieved that he won’t have to go—but still.

Drin looks at him, face blank. “You have responsibilities here, Kurt. You know that.”

Kurt nods. “Blaine. I know. I just—I want to help.”

“I know you do. But it is not as simple as that. And you are helping, albeit in a different way. I’m sure that under your guidance Blaine will be an excellent rider, easily able to undertake any future missions like this.”

Kurt inclines his head. “I hope so. He’s—he’s showing promise.”

Drin pats his arm gently, and Kurt looks up at him, smiles. “Don’t let this get you down, Kurt. You will have plenty of opportunities to demonstrate your skills in the future.”

Kurt laughs. “You _know_ that’s not what I mean, sir. But thank you. For what you said earlier. About me being your best rider—I, just, it’s a big compliment.”

Drin nods. “You learnt from the best, after all.”

Kurt laughs again and stands up. “I certainly did.” Drin looks at him fondly, then stands too, and walks him over to the door, hand on his shoulder.

“And now you must go and pass on all that accumulated greatness. Go on, I’m sure your student is waiting for you.”

Kurt smiles at him, already feeling lighter about the situation, and sets off to go and find Blaine.

*

Santana snorts as he follows her into the back room of the armoury, flicking her braid over her shoulder and giving him a _look_. “And so Drin wants you to stay behind just so you can train Anderson? Wanky.”

“Santana,” Kurt huffs. “That is not wanky in any way, stop. And it’s a good reason to stay behind. Blaine learns quickly, but I can’t just abandon him to go off and protect the border. There’s no estimate to how long Lora’s going to be there.”

Santana perches on a table laden with leather scraps and raises and eyebrow at him. “That bad, huh?”

“I guess. I don’t know that much about what’s happening politically, but there are two destroyed villages already.”

Santana whistles through her teeth. “Shit. I thought the accords were supposed to bring peace, not more unrest.”

Kurt laughs dryly. “I don’t think there’ll ever be peace between us and Barros, to be honest.” He pauses. “How’s Blaine’s armour coming along?”

Santana perks up at that, pushing herself off the table and over to the metal workbench on the other side of the room. She picks up a pair of vambraces and hands them to Kurt. The armguards are leather, lined with steel and embossed with the crest of the kingdom.

“They’re beautiful,” says Kurt, turning them over in his hands.

“I’ve got Jena started on his chainmail, as well.” Jena is Santana’s apprentice of two years. She’s skilled at what she does, and Kurt suspects that soon Santana will appeal to have her made an official armourer.

“Good,” says Kurt, handing back the vambraces. “I’ll get him started training in it as soon as it’s finished. He needs to get used to the weight.” Santana nods. “Okay, I need to go. I’ll see you this evening, maybe?”

“Sure thing, Hummelina. Send my love to Blainers.”

“He’s only met you once, San, and I doubt the impression that you left really invites any desire for your love. But I’ll tell him you say hi.”

Santana laughs and waves him out the door.

*

Kurt pants heavily, shoving a hand across his brow to stop the sweat dripping in his eyes, and attacks again.

He never thought he would struggle to fight a seventeen year old, yet here he is, exhausted and losing focus, all because Blaine is better than him with a stick.

He manages to land a blow to his student’s calf, sending Blaine down onto one knee, knocks his staff out of the way and lunges forward. He swings his stick round and brings it right up to Blaine’s neck, stopping right when it’s touching the skin, perfectly poised.

The only sound is their heavy breathing, tinged with the exhaustion of exerting themselves for four consecutive hours, and the soft puffs of the dragons behind them. Something crackles between them, from the intense look in Blaine’s eyes to his own. For a second he almost forgets that this is his student and not an incredibly attractive rider he just had the pleasure to fight. Then Blaine breaks his gaze, looks down, blushing, and the moment is over.

Kurt drops his staff and sinks to the ground next to Blaine, immediately flopping onto his back with a heavy sigh.

“Damn,” he pants, eyes closed. “You’re good at that.”

Blaine laughs softly. “Thank you. My brother and I—we used to spar a bit, here and there. I guess it’s just engrained into my muscles or something.”

“Mm,” Kurt replies, stretching his legs out across the sand. “God, I could really go for a nap right now.”

They’ve been training for two weeks, and Blaine is getting better and better every day. He’s certainly got a knack for fighting, but he’s clever, too, and Kurt hears good things from his philosophy and alchemy teachers.

Tarron is growing, too, now taller than Blaine and big enough to start flying—but not yet big enough to ride. Kurt had forgotten how _fast_ little dragons grew up. They haven’t had any new riders for at least a year, and the last hatchling had been big to start with.

He opens one eye and squints over to where their dragons are curled up together on the training field, watching them. Aera winks at him fondly, and he rolls his eyes back at her.

Next to him, Blaine has also flopped to the ground in exhaustion, arm thrown over his eyes to shield them from the sun. Kurt’s gaze trails over his bicep and down the long, lean line of his chest, jerking with his panting, to the waistband of his leather leggings and—

He mentally slaps himself, turning his head quickly and getting an eyeful of bright sunshine. He can _not_ be having thoughts like that.

He heaves himself off the ground and brushes his back and ass off, then nudges Blaine’s thigh with his toe and picks up both their training staffs. “Come on,” he says. “Up. I’m hungry.”

Blaine groans and slides his arm off his face, eyes still closed. “Can’t I just lie here until tomorrow?”

Kurt snorts and reaches down to grab Blaine’s arm, pulling him into a sitting position. Blaine blinks at him in surprise, then Kurt tugs again and yanks him to his feet, causing him to stumble and fall against Kurt’s chest.

Kurt goes rigid, the proximity of Blaine’s compact body sending a wave through his nervous system. Blaine hurries to straighten up, removing his hand from Kurt’s waist and stepping a respectable foot away.

“Sorry,” he says, dipping his head. Kurt nods and doesn’t meet his gaze. They’ve been physically close before—the training requires it quite often—but it’s never been quite like _that_.

“So,” Kurt says a little too brightly. “Lunch?”

“Of course.”

They walk back through the training rooms in awkward silence. Kurt drops the practice poles off with the rest of their equipment before they head to the dining hall.

It’s a hubbub inside, knights and academics and students and pages all seated round to eat, and the awkwardness level drops a little. They sit down opposite one another at the end of a table, right in front of a large joint of pork. Kurt watches with amusement as Blaine gladly helps himself.

“You’re getting on very well, you know,” he says as Blaine saws away at the pork now on his plate. “I expect you will be able to to start riding Tarron next week, and then we can move on to some more advanced techniques. Stuff like archery whilst riding, and how to stay on when he’s doing barrel rolls. Don’t worry, it’s not as hard as it sounds.”

“I’m not worried,” Blaine says easily. “Excited, more like. I had no idea Tarron would grow so fast.”

Kurt laughs. “Well, male dragons do often grow more quickly. And Tarron is being very well looked after, thanks to you, so I’m not at all surprised. Give it another month and he’ll be Aera’s size.”

Blaine nods and spears a piece of meat. Kurt watches his brand glimmer in the light streaming in through the high windows, bronze and black. “Blaine?”

Blaine stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Yes?”

“I was wondering… do you, um, how would you feel about spending some time with me this evening, after training? I just think it would really help if we got to know each other better, you know, so that I can determine—“

“I would love to, Sir Hummel.”

Kurt takes a deep breath, nods. “Good. I’ll come and find you in your room after dinner.”

Blaine smiles, light in his eyes, and gets back to eating.

*

Kurt stares at himself in the polished silver of his mirror, hair neater than usual, chainmail and rider’s tunic abandoned for his green doublet. Blaine is right next door, probably waiting—it’s been a while since dinner ended—and he is still standing here, staring at himself.

What is he _doing_?

Drin had never spent time with him outside of lessons. As far as he’s heard, none of the other tutor/student pairs has done it, either. He knows that in the eyes of the authorities, it’s probably a little strange and somewhat questionable that he wants to be with Blaine in their own time and, to be honest, try to be his friend.

But there’s something about Blaine that has Kurt stuck, and he is not going to change his plans for anything. He doesn’t know if it’s Blaine’s easy laugh or the magnetism of his eyes or the way he acts so affably with everyone he meets, but Kurt is drawn to him. Although he will outwardly deny that his desire for better acquaintance is motivated by anything but friendship, he knows that there’s a deeper reason.

God, could someone have warned him that he was going to end up with a crush on his student?

Who is also _ten_ _years_ younger than him?

He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly and smoothing down the front of his doublet. Blaine has waited long enough.

He knocks on Blaine’s door, waiting for an answer, but hears none. Cautiously, he pushes it open, peering into his little living area. A cloak is thrown across the back of a chair and a fire is crackling in the chimney, casting a soft glow over the wooden floorboards. He steps forward slowly, hoping that Blaine’s here. What if he decided he didn’t want to see Kurt, after all? What if he’s out doing something else instead? The thought sends a cold shiver down Kurt’s spine, but he ignores it, moves towards the door to Blaine’s room.

He’s just about to knock and open it when he hears—panting noises, from the other side of the door. He listens for a few seconds, confused, and then hears a loud groan and steps back, face flushing. _Shit_. He tries to ignore the sting that Blaine would abandon him in order to mess around with someone else, and turns to go, giving them their privacy. He had no idea Blaine even _had_ anyone to be having sex with, but hey, he must have been wrong. They’re obviously enjoying themselves.

He’s about to go when he hears it—loud but low, drawn-out—his name. “ _Kuuuuurt._ ”

Blaine just cried out his name.

Kurt stops in his tracks, heart beating a lot faster than usual, and slowly rotates to face the door. Maybe Blaine doesn’t have anyone else in there. Maybe it’s just him and his—fantasies about Kurt. Oh God.

He tiptoes forward, careful not to make the floorboards creak. The door to the room is slightly ajar, light from inside spilling out into the dimly-lit living room. He approaches slowly, ignoring the voices in his head telling him to _stop, go back and let him have his privacy_ , and peeks through the crack in the door.

Blaine’s bed is pushed against the adjoining wall, setting him perfectly in Kurt’s line of sight. Kurt gulps.

Blaine is spread out, knees bent, pants pushed all the way down to his ankles and tunic scrunched up around his chest. He’s—God, he’s _beautiful_ , all hard lean lines except for a slight softness around his tummy, skin flushed and sweaty, muscles rippling as he writhes on the bed.

He’s fisting his cock, thick and hard and purpling at the tip. He is jerking himself off with a steady hand while the other—the other is dipped between his spread legs, moving back and forth. Kurt has to silence a choke. He’s fingering himself.

His _student_ is _fingering_ himself while calling out _Kurt’s_ name, and he suddenly finds it very hard to breathe.

Blaine’s eyes are squeezed shut in pleasure, mouth hanging open, lips wet, hair all over the place. He looks like something Kurt has only ever dreamed of. Slowly, quietly, he slides his hand down over his own crotch, gripping himself through his pants, eyelids fluttering as he watches.

Blaine speeds up, both hands working faster, until he’s arching his back and curling his toes and lets out one last shout of “ _Kurt!_ ” before coming all over his hand and belly and chest.

Kurt lets out a soft moan at the sight, Blaine’s blissful expression, and squeezes his cock harder. Blaine sighs, rolls over so Kurt can see his face. He looks absolutely content.

Then his eyes flick open and land directly on Kurt.

Kurt gasps, stumbles back from the door, trips over his feet and nearly falls over in his haste to escape the room. He can hear Blaine calling after him as he runs out into the corridor and slams the door to his chambers behind him.

He lets himself sag against them, eyes closed.

What has he _done_?

No self-respecting knight would watch their student masturbate and take pleasure from it. No self-respecting knight would watch their student masturbate _period_.

 _But Kurt_ , whispers a voice a the back of his head, _he was calling out your name. He wanted_ you _, Kurt…_

Kurt slams his head back against the door to shut it up. He feels absolutely awful. His knees buckle and his sinks to the ground.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there for, head hanging between his knees, feeling sick to the stomach. But after an indeterminate amount of time, there’s a soft knock on the door behind him. “Sir Hummel?”

Blaine’s tone is quiet, careful. Kurt lifts his head and stares unseeingly across the room to a chest against the opposite wall. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Sir Hummel? Please.”

Shaking his head—he shouldn’t be doing this—he stands up, and touches the handle of the door. His fingers hesitate on the cool metal, brushing over the curve of the handle.

“Kurt?”

It’s that that does it, Blaine’s quiet, innocent tone, so different to how he had said his name before. He opens the door.

“Blaine.”

They stare at each other for a moment, and Kurt can’t help but think that the last time he saw Blaine’s face it was still loose with pleasure. He looks a lot more put together now, but there’s still a red tinge to the tips of his ears.

“Sir Hummel, I can expl—“

“No, I’m sorry, Blaine. I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have watched you like that. It was an invasion of your privacy, and entirely inappropriate behaviour on my part. I’ll ask Drin if someone else can be your tutor, I’m sure you don’t want me after—“

“No.” Blaine’s voice is firm, assertive. “I don’t want anyone else.”

“Oh.”

Blaine nods, then glances up and down the corridor. It’s deserted.

“So are we still…”

“Going out?”

“Yes.”

Kurt sighs, measuring up the boy in front of him. Blaine looks embarrassed, nervous; his fingers are twitching where they’re clasped together.

“Alright,” says Kurt. “But we will not speak of what just happened again. Ever.”

“No,” Blaine hastens to agree. “Of course not.”

“Okay. Good. Why don’t you get your cloak and we’ll go?”

Blaine returns quickly, fastening the clasp of his cloak, and Kurt pulls his door shut behind him. He gestures for Blaine to follow him, leading him up through the stairways and passages of the Academy.

“Where are we going?” Blaine asks as they pass the archway to the Rafters.

“You’ll see.”

They climb up a long spiral staircase, up to a door of metal bars. Kurt fishes the key out of his pocket and swings the door open with a loud grating sound.

They step out onto a stone parapet high above the city lights twinkling in the night sky. It’s breezy, but there’s not too much wind. Kurt gestures for Blaine to follow him and jumps to grab onto the roof of the tower, wedging a foot into the metal bars and heaving himself up.

Blaine needs a hand over the top (he’s shorter than Kurt, and he won’t lie and say it doesn’t do anything for him, because it does) and then they’re both seated on the shingles, high enough to see all the way across the countryside to the southern sea.

“This is the highest tower in the city,” says Kurt. He sits up straighter so that he can see directly over the edge, and points. “The big, weirdly-shaped building below us is the Rafters. Its name is misleading, because it’s not really in the rafters. This is the highest you can get without being on the back of a dragon.”

“Wow,” breathes Blaine, crouching and gripping the edge of the roof to look over. “Everything looks so small.”

Kurt laughs. “You’ve ridden a dragon four times already, Blaine. It shouldn’t really be that much of a surprise.”

“No, but.” Blaine turns to face him. “It’s different when you’re still joined to the ground, you know?”

“I guess.”

They sit in silence for a little while, looking out over the city. It’s a little awkward, given what happened earlier, but it’s peaceful enough up here that Kurt can distance himself from that.

A dragon swoops by, a black shadow against the sky, and Blaine watches it reverently, eyes wide. “I still can’t quite believe I’m here,” he says quietly. “Just a month ago I was just a farm boy, and now I’m…”

“One of the best students I’ve seen.”

Blaine turns to look at him, surprised. “You really think that?”

Kurt hesitates a little—he knows the dangers of Blaine getting too big-headed, too arrogant, but he also knows that Blaine is responsible and intelligent enough not to let it get to his head.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You’re learning so much faster than anyone else I’ve seen. I mean, not that I’ve taught anyone before, but from what I’ve heard. Maybe it’s because you’re older than most beginners.”

Blaine scoffs. “Well, I. thanks. I guess.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Drin asked you to join the order at the end of the year.”

“Wha—really?”

“Mm. I trained for six years before I joined. And that was fast. But you’re—you’re pretty amazing, Blaine.”

“Thank you, sir, that’s—thank you. But you know, maybe it’s just that I have the best teacher.”

Kurt throws his head back and laughs freely, voice echoing in the night sky. “Oh, shut up, Blaine.”

“No, no, I mean it. You’re really good.”

Kurt looks at Blaine, the eagerness and sincerity in his eyes, and knows that he’s not making fun of him. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

They drop into silence again, more comfortable this time. After a little while, Kurt lies back against the roof, looking up at the stars. He feels Blaine lie down next to him and they stare up at the sky together.

“It’s so huge,” Blaine says, wonder in his voice. “Do you think they look down on us just like we look up at them?”

Kurt turns his head to look at Blaine, eyebrow raised. “What, the stars?” He pauses. “I don’t know. I want to think so. That my mother’s up there, keeping an eye on me.”

He hears Blaine’s breath catch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No, don’t worry. It was years ago, I—I’m used to her absence now. Just sometimes there are moments when I feel—like she’s there, guiding me, you know?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Kurt sighs and drifts his gaze over the heavens. All the legends tell of the dead becoming stars, and watching their families left behind on Earth, but he—he doesn’t quite know if he agrees or not. It’s been nineteen years since the day she fell, and he’s missed her every one of them. The thought of her being there, watching him, guiding him… it warms him, even if he’s not sure he believes it.

“What about you?” he asks quietly.

Blaine shrugs. “I’ve never had anyone close to me die, so I guess there isn’t anyone to look down on me. But I like the idea, yeah. I think I believe it.”

It’s quiet; the only sounds breaking the silence are the flutter of the wind in the flag at the top of the tower and their own breathing. Kurt tries not to, but his mind drifts back to what he had seen earlier, to Blaine, so beautiful and needy and desperate, calling out _his_ name. He tenses, glancing sideways at his student, who is still gazing up at the stars. He tries to imagine what it would be like if they weren’t bound together in this way—would he reach over and take Blaine’s hand, tug him towards him, lay a gentle kiss upon his lips? Or would he have already kissed him, rushed into his room when he had been crying out his name, helped him reach his climax?

Whatever he would have done, the fact still remains that Blaine is his student and ten years his junior. Nothing like that can ever happen between them.

After a while, he sits up and gets ready to leave. Blaine seems hesitant—it is, after all, incredibly peaceful up here—but it’s getting late and they have to make an early start tomorrow. He swings down from the rooftop, gives Blaine a hand to the ground, and leads them back to their rooms.

As soon as the door to his chambers swings shut behind him, he falls into one of the deep chairs in front of the fire, hand over his face. He had never expected this to happen when he had been officially knighted.

He wonders idly if he should go and talk to Aera about it—what he usually does when he has problems he can’t discuss with Santana—but decides it’s best to leave her out of this. She and Tarron are getting along _so well_ , it would just bring awkwardness to their relationship that he doesn’t want to be the source of.

So instead he just goes to bed, does his best to ignore the images of Blaine, spread naked and arching underneath him, and falls asleep.

*

They hear the first news from the North the following day. The Barrosse army is a lot bigger than they had thought, and things aren’t going well. Lora is doing her best to keep things under control, but even she and her dragon are no match for the thousand or so men they’re up against. So Drin gathers all the qualified riders together, all thirty four of them, and asks who is willing to fly up and assist with the defence.

He stares Kurt down as he speaks, and Kurt knows that he doesn’t mean that he wants to him to go. He wants him to _stay_ and it’s frustrating as hell.

Eventually, five knights are picked, and Drin sends them off to Santana and the Rafters to get prepared. Kurt is relieved to see that Sebastian is among them.

He returns to where Blaine is warming up in one of the training rooms, shakes his head when he asks what’s going on, and gets them started on some simple close combat shield moves.

*

His unfortunate crush on his student and the problems in the North aren’t the only things he has on his plate. Aera’s coming of age ceremony is getting closer and closer, and as her rider he is in charge of organising everything.

As there are usually only between thirty and forty dragons at the Academy at any given time, new arrivals are rare and coming of age ceremonies are even less frequent. It’s an important moment, not just for the order and the Academy, but for the kingdom as well. The ceremony will be hosted in the castle, with music and festivities and an open invitation to the nearby nobility. Kurt is expected to make a speech and assist the king in donning Aera’s ceremonial harness.

He has about two weeks to make sure everything is running smoothly, and while the king’s master of staff and marshall have been helping by finding musicians and sending out the invitations, he still has a lot to do. It doesn’t help that all the preparations are cutting into his training time with Blaine.

He’s drooped over the desk in his room, eyes blurring over the four-and-a-half foot long menu for the event. The sound of birds waking up and starting their song brushes at his ears, heralding the arrival of dawn. He groans, rubs a hand over his eyes, and sits up properly. Forget sleep, he needs to get ready for the day.

He grabs breakfast from the kitchens before it’s even been served in the dining hall, and eats his crust of bread on the way up to the Rafters. He needs to start early; they’ve got a long day ahead of them. Blaine is going to ride Tarron for the first time.

Aera must have sensed him coming because she’s already waiting down on the floor, cleaning the scales of her front leg with a sharp tooth. He flops against her flank, pushing away the tendrils of exhaustion threatening to send him off to sleep. Aera blows a breath of warm air through his hair in greeting and he pats her side gently.

Tarron peeks his head out his room—a new, bigger one a few feet up—after a little while. He perks up when he sees Kurt and Aera and trots out to them. He’s taller than Kurt now, and finally big enough to be ridden.

“Hey, buddy,” Kurt says, stroking over the tip of his wing. “You ready to carry Blaine today?”

Tarron snorts happily and jumps around like an excited puppy. Kurt laughs.

Blaine arrives just as the sun is touching the very top of the room, casting a soft warm light down to the floor. “Today’s the day,” he says in greeting, and Kurt inclines his head.

“Indeed it is. And seeing as you’re going to be riding him, you should come and help me carry Tarron’s tack.”

“I—yes, of course.”

Tarron’s saddle is sitting on a block in the big adjourning tack room, shiny and new. Kurt shows Blaine how to hoist it onto his back to carry it over to his dragon, and grabs the various assorted straps and a pair of stirrups. They shuffle the equipment over to Tarron and Aera and he drops it to the ground to help Blaine.

After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, Blaine finally manages to saddle Tarron by himself, and watches as Kurt shows him how to tighten the girth properly and attach the stirrups. Once Tarron is ready to go, he stands gleaming in the morning light, tall and bronze and looking very proud of himself.

Aera puffs a little cloud of smoke at him affectionately, but he just shakes it off and struts over to the mounting block. Kurt glances at Blaine in amusement, sees that he too is trying to contain his laughter.

After their few times riding Aera, Blaine can now get onto Tarron’s back on his own—and it probably helps that his withers are a bit lower than hers, too. He swings his leg over, only overshooting it a little bit, and settles into position.

“Well done,” praises Kurt, coming round to climb onto the mounting block so that he can see Blaine properly. “Are you comfortable?”

“Uh—yeah, I think so.” Blaine glances down at his feet in the stirrups, shuffles a little. “He’s smaller than Aera, easier to ride.”

“Yep,” agrees Kurt. “So.”

“So.”

“When you’re ready, just tell him, and he’ll go. Not too far, okay, Tarron?”

The dragon, who had been watching Kurt with a black beady eye, inclines his head obediently.

“Good. Whenever you feel like it, then.”

Blaine nods and Tarron steps away from the block a little, muscles rippling under his scales as he prepares to leap into the air. He watches with baited breath, hoping that Blaine really is okay up there on his own—he had said over and over again that he would be fine, that he was ready, but Kurt is the kind to worry about people he cares about, and he really doesn’t want Blaine to get—

Tarron springs into the air, a deep wing beat, and then they’re up, up to the top of the room, and out through the ceiling.

Kurt’s pretty sure that the last thing he hears is Blaine’s cry of delight.

He sits down on the block. Aera walks over to him and drops the tip of her snout into his lap with a huff, sending a stream of hot air flowing into his face. He grins at her and scratches the smooth scales between her eyes.

“You want to join them, huh, girl?”

She perks up in excitement.

“Okay, okay. We’ll wait until they get back and then ask them if they don’t mind going out again.”

Aera looks satisfied and makes to curl up on the floor in front of him. “Hey hey hey, I’m not done with you yet!” She shoots him an unimpressed glance. “We need to talk about your ceremony.”

He jumps off the block and goes back over to the tack room, rummaging around in Aera’s chest until he lays hand on the decorative rope he had bought her a few weeks ago. He needs to take it down to Jena to have her work it into the ceremonial harness Aera will be wearing on the day.

Aera _grins_ when he brings it out, the tips of her wings twitching with excitement. He lets her sniff it a little before he holds it up against her side. The interwoven blue and gold strands in the rope make a beautiful contrast against the silver of her scales.

They talk a little about the ceremony—what’s going to happen and how Aera needs to prepare—or at least, Kurt talks and Aera nods. They’re so wrapped up in it that Kurt is surprised when he hears the sound of heavy wings beating through the air; he looks up, and sure enough, Blaine and Tarron are returning.

He coils up the rope and leaves it on the edge of the mounting block, wiping his hands and walking over to where the bronze dragon is crouched on the floor. Blaine slides off his back a lot more gracefully than on previous dismounts, only stumbling a little when his feet hit the ground.

“So?” Kurt asks eagerly.                                                   

“That was amazing,” replies Blaine, excitement evident in the lilt of his voice and gleam in his eyes. “I’ve never felt so close to Tarron, and it’s so different when you’re alone, you know?”

Kurt smiles at him and nods. He remembers the first time he had ridden Aera—Drin hadn’t allowed him to ride Pertha, his dragon, beforehand—the thrill of feeling the wind on his face and seeing the Earth so far below, that sense of closeness he had felt to her—there was nothing quite like it, nothing he had experienced with any human.

“So… do you want to go up again?”

“Really? I mean, yes! I would love to, are you sure Tarron—“

“Tarron will be fine, won’t you?” Tarron breathes a small puff of fire in reply, nearly catching the back of Blaine’s head. Blaine ducks, laughing.

“Well then,” says Kurt. “Help me get Aera saddled up and we’ll head out?”

“Of course, sir.”

*

Kurt thinks to bring some food with them (he catches Sir Byran on his way back in from a morning excursion and asks him to send someone up from the kitchen), so they stop for lunch on a rocky outcrop to the west of the city. Aera and Tarron, who usually eat the carcasses specially prepared for the dragons, fly off together in search of food. They’ve been spending a lot of time together, recently, as Aera is helping Tarron with his flight—he suspects there may be something more there, too, but hasn’t been nosy enough to look into it. Kurt gives them strict instructions not to eat anything tame and to return soon.

He unclasps his cloak and lays it out on the sparse grass, dropping down with a heavy sigh. Blaine sits down beside him, pulling off his leather gloves and pushing his fingers through his hair.

They’ve spent the morning mostly flying around the castle and its surrounding landscape, practising simple moves and turns. Blaine has a good control over Tarron; flying, much like every other topic covered during their lessons, is something that comes naturally to Blaine. If they continue this afternoon, he’s sure that Blaine will be able to move on to dragonback-fighting during the week.

“So how are you finding it?” he asks, pulling his pack towards him and taking out some bread and dried lamb. “Flying on your own.”

Blaine sighs happily and leans back on his hands, his neck stretching golden over his Adam’s apple. Kurt swallows and turns his eyes back to the food, dismissing the images of Blaine on his bed a few days ago flashing through his mind.

“I love this,” Blaine says, grinning. “I just really feel like… like I was born for this, or something. Other people might find their calling in working the land or running a province but—I’m just so glad Tarron picked _me_.”

Kurt nods and hands him a dried lamb sandwich. _I’m glad he picked you too_.

*

By the end of the day, they’re both spent but happy, and Blaine won’t stop talking about how amazing everything is and how much he loves it here. If Kurt hadn’t been watching him all day, he would have thought him a little drunk. But maybe he’s just drunk on happiness.

It makes him feel good, too, to see Blaine so settled. He sends him off to dinner with a final wave and laugh, and stares after him down the corridor for far too long.

He’s on his way to see Santana when Sir Flanaghan stops him.

“Hummel,” he says, pulling him down a smaller corridor where they won’t be seen or overhead by people on their way to dinner. “I’ve just seen Drin. There’s news from the North.”

“Uh—“

“Smythe is missing.”

“What?”

“Sir Sebastian Smythe, he’s missing. They arrived safely but there was a run-in with some of the Barosse army and he disappeared. Not dead, just gone.”

“He deserted?” God, Kurt knew he was lousy, but never believed him cowardly enough to desert a mission.

“No, no, they think—they think he might have been taken.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“What about his dragon?”

“Disappeared too.”

“Huh. Well, that’s interesting. Thanks, Rory.”

Sir Flanaghan nods respectfully and leaves Kurt standing alone in the corridor. _Very interesting indeed_.

He doesn’t particularly care for Sebastian—after their brief affair and the subsequent fallout that had nearly escalated into a full-blown fight, he has tried to keep as far away from him as possible. But the thought that one of their best knights could have been taken by the enemy? Even one he despised as much as Smythe?

The Barrosse army must be a lot stronger than they had anticipated.

With that daunting thought in mind, he makes his way to Santana’s room—she’ll have finished work by now, and she prefers a later dinner, so that’s where she’s most likely to be. It’s lower down than the knights’ rooms, near the ground floor. He bangs on the firm wooden door a couple of times until he hears a shout from within.

Santana opens the door wrapped in a large robe and not much else. She raises an eyebrow at him expectantly.

“Spill, Hummel. I do _not_ appreciate being taken from my bath.”

“Sorry,” he’s quick to say, ducking his head. “Can I come in?”

Santana sighs, but nods her head anyway and opens the door for him.

Her room isn’t quite as luxurious as his, but still comfortable and relatively clean. A large wooden tub rests on the scrubbed wooden floorboards in front of the fire. Santana walks over and drops the robe—Kurt looks away quickly—before climbing back in and disappearing beneath the soapy bubbles. Kurt deems it safe to look again.

“So what do you have to tell me that’s so important that you come when you _know_ I’ll be bathing? I know you don’t like titties, Kurt, so that can’t be the reason.”

“I didn’t know you would be—“ He sighs and sits down on the end of her bed. “It’s, um. It’s about Blaine.”

Santana’s eyes fly open and she turns to him, smirk dancing on her lips. “ _Really_?”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not going to talk to you if you just tease me and constantly make comments about how ‘wanky’ everything is.”

“Just ‘cause you can’t face the truth doesn’t mean I won’t say it. But go on. I’ll try not to interrupt.”

Kurt doesn’t speak immediately, looks down at his hands and ponders if he should really be having this conversation. But Santana’s the only other person at the Academy he’s really comfortable confiding in, apart from Drin, and there’s no way he can talk about _this_ with him. He swallows and looks up.

“I think I like him, San. I mean—I _know_ I like him. Um, romantically.”

“Aww, Kurtie has a crush,” she coos, leaning on the side of the bathtub. “Does he know?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t think so. But that’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”

“Go on.”

“So the other night, I decided to take him up to the top of the tower on the hill—you know, the highest one? Just to spend some time together outside of lessons. I want him to feel like he has a friend here. I know how scary it is being on your own.” Santana nods. “But anyway, that’s not what this is about. Before we went out, I, um.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I walked in on him jerking off.”

“Kurt!” Santana’s expression is one of pure delight.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you—“

“Hey, don’t stop! I want details, Hummel. Did he look hot? What was his face like when he—“

“My God, Santana, just can it in, would you?! I’m not here to talk about how hot Blaine looked. I can’t talk about how hot he looked. It’ll just make it worse.” He grits his teeth and doesn’t meet her eyes. “It was me,” he says softly. “It was my name he called out when…”

Santana is silent for a moment. “Oh my God,” she mutters. “Oh my _God_ , Kurt, your student is having fantasies about you! That’s—“

“That shouldn’t have happened! None of this should have happened! Because I’m his tutor and he’s ten years younger than me, Santana! My entering into an intimate relationship with him would totally ruin his training. Not to mention be completely inappropriate.”

He sighs, standing up. “I just—wanted your advice. On what to do. I wasn’t even sure if I should tell you, because I knew how you would react, but… Maybe I should just go.”

“Wait, wait, Kurt,” she says, climbing out of the tub. Kurt’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead and he turns around. “I won’t—I’m sorry.” She comes round to face him, wrapped in the long robe again, and looks at him seriously. “So you want my advice on how to keep it in your pants and away from your gifted little dragon boy, who himself is desperate for it?”

“Er—yes?”

“Not easy, babe. You’re just going to have to distract yourself as much as possible until you get over your crush. Not that I would mind hearing that it had come to fruition, but… Aera’s ceremony is coming up, right?”

Kurt nods.

“Concentrate on that. Then when that’s over… you’ll find something else to concentrate on, ‘kay?”

He inhales deeply and lets it out on a nod. “Okay.”

*

It would be easier to distract himself from Blaine if training didn’t require them to frequently occupy one another’s space.

They’re sparring in one of the training rooms. (Although they would normally use the field outside for more space, it’s windy and rainy and downright horrible out there. Kurt made the executive decision to train inside with some gentle prompting from his student.) They’ve moved on to using real—albeit blunted—swords, the loud clashes of metal against metal ringing around the room. It’s been two-and-a-half hours already. Kurt is gross and sweaty, stripped down to his light shirt and pants. Blaine, as usual, is barefoot to help improve his balance and footwork, and he has his pants rolled up to mid-calf to reveal the tan skin of his ankles.

Kurt lunges towards him gracefully, not nearly as fast as he would were he fighting versus a real opponent, but quick enough for Blaine to have to leap back and bring his sword down across his chest to block. Kurt grunts and parries forward again, faking to one side then quickly swinging his blade around to the other where it catches Blaine’s loose shirt and tears a gash in it.

Blaine darts back, swearing, his shirt hanging open. Kurt forces himself not to look, to focus on the battle at hand. But his eyes slip and—soft golden skin, tainted with sweat, muscles moving easily under the smooth expanse—

Suddenly he feels the tip of a blade at his side, and glances up just in time to see Blaine’s outstretched arm before there’s another _rrrip_ and his lovely soft cotton shirt has a huge tear down the side.

“Dead,” says Blaine simply, dropping his sword and swiping a hand across his forehead. “Got you.”

Kurt sighs and gives up on his shirt. It’s irreparable. “Well done,” he says, tapping the tip of his sword against Blaine’s. “That’s—you moved in when your opponent was distracted. Well done.”

Blaine nods, panting a little, and slides a hand up to the tear in his own shirt. He glances at it for a moment, then shrugs and pulls it off over his head.

“It’s too hot for it anyway,” explains Blaine, and Kurt nods absently, forcing his eyes away from Blaine’s chest to his face. He’s met with a firm gaze, and there’s something—challenging? Yes, definitely something challenging underneath.

He drops his sword to the ground with a clatter and pulls off his own shirt.

The room is silent except for their heavy breathing, and he can _feel_ the tension laced through the air. Blaine is definitely staring at his chest, and he internally prides himself at the matter—he keeps himself well toned and fit. Blaine glances up at his face, and Kurt can’t mistake the desire in his eyes.

 _He’s your seventeen-year-old student_ , says the voice in his head.

“Shall we have another round?” he hears his voice say out loud.

They pick up their swords and circle each other slowly, footsteps careful and steady. Kurt’s gaze is locked with Blaine’s, his weapon tight in his grip, his muscles ready to spring. Any moment now.

Blaine leaps forwards, one big step across the invisible circle they’ve created, and stabs towards his neck. Kurt deflects the blow easily and glances his blade off Blaine’s, moving forward quickly and fluidly. They exchange a quick series of strikes, one after the other, until Kurt gets the upper hand and locks his sword around the hilt of Blaine’s. A simple flick of the wrist and he sends it clattering to the ground.

Blaine’s left unarmed, panting, and Kurt strides forwards, sword outstretched. Blaine retreats across the floor until he’s pressed against the wall, trapped and unable to retrieve his weapon. Kurt smirks at him and moves closer, pressing the edge of his blade against Blaine’s neck and crowding him up against the wall.

They’re both panting and sweating heavily, chests heaving. Kurt presses forward a little further and his torso touches Blaine’s, sending a wave of heat down his spine and to his cock.

Blaine’s eyes are hooded, dark with lust, his mouth slightly parted. Kurt realises that he can feel where Blaine is hard against his thigh. The thought only makes his cock swell up faster.

He can’t tear his eyes away from Blaine’s, from the seemingly innocent yet so seductive look on his face. He’s trapped, he can’t tear himself away, can’t even move to let the blade drop. Blaine is _right_ here, caught underneath his weapon, open and willing and downright sinful.

He feels the lightest touch on his waist as Blaine’s fingers brush over his skin, barely pressing down. It sends shivers down his spine.

“Kurt…” Blaine breathes, voice deep and eyes dark, and slides his fingers down towards the small of his back. He loosens his grip on his sword, lets it drag down across Blaine’s collarbone. Their faces are inches apart. It would be so easy—so very easy—to just lean forwards and—

With an enormous amount of willpower, he makes himself step back.  Blaine’s expression _sinks_ , the look of loss and disappointment on his face nearly enough to tempt him back in, but he shakes his head, and backs away.

“I’m sorry, Blaine. I can’t.”

“But—“

“No. This is the way it has to be. I’m sorry.” He tears his eyes away from Blaine’s stricken expression and turns to pick up his shirt, balling it up and squeezing it hard because he needs to squeeze _something_ right now. He hears Blaine’s soft footsteps and walks towards the door, gathering up the rest of his gear and dropping his sword on top of the chest it lives in.

He turns one last time, doesn’t meet his student’s eyes. “That’ll be the end of lessons for today. I expect to see you at Aera’s coming of age ceremony tomorrow evening.”

“Wait! Please, Kur—Sir Hummel! Wait!”

But Kurt simply shakes his head at him again and hurries to leave the room.

The corridor is deserted, thank God, but he has to take the back way to save himself from passing any of the occupied training rooms. Wandering around shirtless is quite uncommon, running away shirtless and followed by your student even more so.

He finally makes it back to his room and slams the door behind him, letting the anger bubble and grow in his chest. He’s not sure what or who he’s angry with—himself, or Blaine, or the stupid system and society and everything that won’t let them be together—but he’s angry.

He throws his balled up shirt into the cold fireplace, dumps the rest of his things unceremoniously on the carpet, and goes to run a bath.

He had tried to follow Santana’s advice. He had _tried_ , but it was impossible to be distracted from Blaine. And now he has officially fucked up.

*

Kurt fiddles with the buttons on his wrist, taking his time to slip them through the smooth silk fabric, brushing his fingers over them when he’s done. He does up the catch at his throat, sweeping his hands over the front of his shirt and staring at himself in the mirror.

Aera’s coming of age ceremony will start in an hour, and he can barely concentrate on it.

He takes a deep breath and picks up his embroidered doublet, deep blue of the Academy and edged in gold and silver. It fits beautifully (he had, after all, helped design it himself), following the expanse of his shoulders and the gentle curve of his waist. He reaches behind himself to tie the ribbon at his lower back, cinching it in and making his waist and hips trim.

He’s got on his best grey pants, made of finely-woven wool, tipped with long black boots. He picks up his belt, decorative sword already attached, and fastens it around his waist. His gloves are made of soft and supple leather; his cloak is edged with silver thread.

This is the most luxurious outfit he has ever worn.

He neatens his hair, twitching the few strands that have fallen out of the light wax product he uses to keep it up. He sighs, and looks at himself in the mirror.

His expression is guarded, tense—not the expression a rider should have on the biggest day of his dragon’s life. He tries smiling, a little, but it feels strange. Hopefully the party will distract him enough to cheer him up.

He pushes all thoughts of what he’s being distracted _from_ out of his head and checks himself over one last time. He looks elegant and fine. He’s ready to go.

Aera is waiting for him in the Rafters, already beautifully decked out in her harness and saddle. The rope he purchased a month ago has been woven across the broad expanse of her chest, blue and gold glittering against the silver of her scales.

The sight alone makes his lips twitch, and he lays a gentle palm on her side. “Are you ready?” Kurt asks quietly.

Aera dips her wing in response, allowing him to grab onto the tip and swing himself into the saddle without needing the mounting block. It’s a little uncomfortable, due to the fact that the saddle is mostly for decorative purposes only, but he feels like he needs this, one last moment together before an evening that’s sure to be absolutely hectic.

He lies forward against Aera’s neck, lets his eyes drifts shut and rests there for a while. After all the preparations they’ve been doing for this evening, he’s _exhausted_.

After a few minutes, Aera starts to get restless underneath him, and he sits up, patting her neck. “Okay, girl. Let’s go.”

There’s bustle everywhere when they land in the castle courtyard, people hurrying to and fro carrying banners and food and decorations. The doors to the main hall have been thrown open, and a special area set up for Aera near the far end of the room. Kurt slides easily off her back and gestures for her to follow him, ducking his head at the cheers from the guards on the doors of the main hall.

He gets Aera settled in and spends a while standing with her, petting her neck and talking to her softly. She doesn’t seem particularly antsy, more excited, but he wants her to be as calm as possible for the ceremony.

People begin to arrive, filling up the hallway, mostly the rich and powerful from all around. The rest of the order—at least those who aren’t defending the kingdom in the North—line up near the front of the room. Kurt glimpses Blaine standing with the only other rider-in-training—Sam Evans, who has been at the Academy a couple of years now—and immediately looks away. He can’t afford to catch his eye, not at a time like this.

Finally, the hall is full, the crowd extending out into the courtyard and through the open front gates of the castle. The king, dressed in a long and heavy purple robe, enters from a door near Aera, and the hubbub settles down. He walks solemnly over to the dais set up at the front of the room, holds out his hands for silence, and the ceremony begins.

*

The party after the ceremony is busy and crowded, and Kurt and Aera are approached by countless lords and ladies and barons and non-rider knights, so many that after a while they all start to become a blur. Kurt nurses the drink of wine Santana had fetched him (she’s standing a little off to their side, looking beautiful in a deep red dress) and tries to keep up with the conversation he’s having with yet another nameless noble. Yes, Aera does look beautiful tonight. He’s been a knight for eight years. Yes, he enjoys it. No, he’s never been seriously injured.

The duke, or whatever he is, starts on a long tirade about how he believes the knights should only be chosen from the nobility, and Kurt finds his gaze drifting across the room. He spots Lord Drin standing with a couple of other riders, face serious and head bowed. They hardly look like they’re enjoying themselves. Other knights are milling around, some at the huge buffet table, some talking, some looking just as awkward as he feels. His catches a flash of dark curly hair out of the corner of his eye, and glances across to see Blaine sitting alone at one of the small tables that have been set up. He’s nursing a tankard of something and looks downright miserable. As much as Kurt doesn’t want to, he can’t stop feeling like he should just go over there and—

“Sir Hummel?”

His head snaps round. “Yes! Sorry?”

“I was just asking whether you were planning on passing your skills on to anyone.”

“Oh, I—yes. I have a student.”

“Is he here?”

Kurt hopes he doesn’t blush when he looks over and catches Blaine’s eye. “Yes, he’s—here.” He inhales deeply, then gestures at Blaine to come over.

He’s very— _present_ , by his side, all charm and smiles towards the old duke, earning himself all the man’s praise and compliments. Which he rightly deserves, obviously.

The duke shakes their hands, and finally wanders off to talk to someone else, leaving them in peace. Kurt sighs heavily and sags back against Aera’s warm chest.

“Too many people?” asks Blaine.

“Uh-huh,” Kurt replies, not meeting his eye. He watches Santana make her way over and hands her his glass of wine to finish. “How long is this thing supposed to go on for?”

She shrugs. “A few hours. I don’t know. You haven’t even done a _ceremonial flight_ yet.”

“Shut up, San, you know we don’t have to do that.”

“Sir Hummel!” Another noble appears in front of them, and Kurt does he best to wipe the less-than-amused expression from his face. She’s got all her hair piled up in a huge do on top of her head, wrinkled bosom practically bursting out of her brown dress.

Kurt sighs internally and smiles at her.

He’s about to introduce himself and his dragon when he hears it—everyone hears it.

A loud scream echoes up through the room from the courtyard.

There’s a moment of silence, then more screams follow and everything descends into chaos.

The heavily-endowed lady in front of them picks up her skirts and runs out of his line of sight. All across the hall, people are frantic, pushing further towards him and the doors that lead deeper into the castle. The knights who have brought weapons draw them, pushing through the fray towards the doors and whatever lies in the courtyard.

After a few moments of staring in stupor, Kurt is shaken to attention by Santana thrusting a sword at him. He jumps, then realizes what she’s doing and discards the ceremonial sword from his belt, taking the proffered one and testing its weight. She tosses another sword to Blaine and pulls two long knives from somewhere—Kurt has no idea why she had brought so many weapons to the party or even where she was hiding them, but that doesn’t matter now.

“Come on!” he shouts, and sets off down the hallway.

They’re saved having to push through the frantic crowd by Aera leaping ahead of them, growling and clearing a way to the doors. Santana is the first to push through and into the evening sunshine, gasping and hesitating slightly before running out into the courtyard.

Kurt slides to a stop next to Aera’s front leg, and feels Blaine bump into his back.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

The courtyard is overrun with soldiers—not from their kingdom, but soldiers dressed in the black and yellow garb of—

“Barros,” says Blaine quietly. Kurt nods.

He has no idea how they got here, or even how they knew that the city and castle would be open tonight of all nights. That’s not important at the moment. What matters right now is that he must save as many people as possible.

He cries out and rushes forward into the fray, Aera at his side, snarling and growling at the Barrosse forces. He’s quick to stab the first one he comes across, one quick strike to the neck, and the soldier crumples to the ground with a weak cry. He sees Blaine moving out from behind him, sword raised, and sincerely hopes that he knows what he’s doing.

The soldiers aren’t especially tough or fast, but there are so _many_ of them; when he kills one, three more appear to take his place. His movements are fast, precise, deadly—a lot more vicious than they had been when he was training with Blaine.

He swings his blade round and catches a soldier in the side, dodges back from the man’s flailing axe and kicks him in the stomach. He hits the ground with a solid _thud_. Kurt takes a moment to catch his breath.

He can just see Blaine on the far side of the courtyard, standing next to Aera, but far enough away to be safe from her sharp claws and gnashing teeth. He knows it’s too risky for her to breathe fire in an enclosed space like this; one wrong move and they could all go up in flames.

He hears a shout behind him and spins just in time to thrust his sword in under a soldier’s helmet, pulling it out wet with blood and leaving the man staggering. Another advances immediately, sword raised to strike, and Kurt lunges forwards to hit him first—

There’s a loud shriek from the sky above, and a dark shadow falls across the courtyard.

Kurt stumbles forward, luckily catching his opponent in the process. He rights himself and looks up.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_.

There’s an unfamiliar dragon perched on the wall above the castle gates. And it’s _huge_.

Kurt watches, stunned, as a man leaps of the neck of the enormous beast, dark cloak the same colour as its scales. He jumps easily off the wall, landing in a crouch on the stone courtyard among his men. Then he’s moving towards Aera, drawing a long, black sword from the sheath on his back.

Kurt cries out weakly and leaps over a body in front of him, running across the distance as fast as he can. He glances over to his dragon—she seems fine, standing on a fallen load of barrels and aggressively defending herself, but Blaine—Blaine isn’t doing quite as well.

He’s surrounded by at least five men, struggling to stay upright, and looking absolutely terrified. Kurt picks up his speed and promptly trips, his foot catching in a cloak splayed across the floor. He knocks his head on the ground and everything goes blurry.

It takes him a while to come back to himself and push himself to his feet, stumbling as he regains his proper vision. He staggers forward, but—it’s already too late.

Blaine is hanging limply over the black-clad man’s shoulder, arms swinging as the man leaps up the stairway to the parapet above the gate, slashing his sword at anyone between him and his dragon.

“No—“ Kurt says weakly, then shakes his head and runs faster, reaching the bottom of the steps just as the stranger reaches his dragon. “No! Blaine!”

The man swings Blaine up over the dragon’s back before he hoists himself up, easily and gracefully. Kurt feels a strange twang of recognition at the movement, but dismisses it. There’s no way he’s met this person before. And he can’t even see his _face_.

The rider kicks hard at his dragon, and Kurt leaps up the stairs, three, four at a time. “ _Blaine_!” he cries, throwing a soldier off the wall to the hard ground below, running as fast as he physically can, leaping over a couple of corpses and he’s _so close_ —

The dragon lifts into the air just as he reaches its talons.

“NO!” shouts Kurt, jumping into the air, trying to grab on. But they’re too high already. “ _No_! Blaine! Please!”

But his cries are futile. Blaine is gone.

He turns quickly, eyes immediately falling on where Aera is proudly fighting her corner—and then there’s a sharp pain at the back of his head and everything goes black.

*

He comes to slowly to a crowd of faces, dark against the night sky above. The back of his head is throbbing painfully, and he groans. His mind is fuzzy; he can’t remember where he is or what just happened.

The events of the evening come back to him slowly. He remembers giving his speech at the ceremony, fingers clasped together to hide any signs of nerves. He remembers standing next to Aera, talking to an old duke. He remembers screams, and then it’s all very blurry, until suddenly—

“Blaine!”

He sits upright, the quick movement leaving him even dizzier, and there’s a hand on his shoulder. He blinks up and sees Santana standing over him looking concerned.

“Bl—Blaine was taken,” Kurt mutters, then shrugs her hand off and stands up. He’s still on the parapet above the gate. “Need to go after him.”

“Whoa, Kurt, slow down,” says Santana, pushes him back so that he can sit on the wheel of a cannon. “You hit your head really hard, you need to relax.”

He looks down, dazed, at the bloodied courtyard. “Where did they come from?”

“They came up the river. We have no idea how they got past the gates, or through the port, or how they even knew that the castle would be open tonight.”

Kurt nods, and remembers the huge black dragon and its mysterious rider. His stomach jolts.

“We need to get your head checked,” says Santana.

Anger bubbles in his chest, and he does his best to shoot her a glare. “Blai—“

“Kurt, please.” It’s Lord Drin talking now, crouched down in front of him, face haggard and left cheek bloodied. “You’re hurt.”

“I don’t care!” Kurt says loudly, standing up and brushing them both off, glaring at the gathered knights on the wall with him. It’s quiet, down below, all of the Barrosse soldiers killed or captured. “I have to go after him.”

“Kurt—“

“No! You don’t understand, he can’t—I can’t let them—I have to save him.” Aera is standing in the courtyard below, her bright eyes clouded with worry. “Aera and I will leave before dawn.”

With that he turns and hurries down the stairs, stalks across the courtyard, swings himself onto his dragon’s back and leaves the castle.

*

He’s hurriedly checking the straps under Aera’s arms when he’s approached by Drin, still wearing his ceremonial robe, expression drawn.

“Are you sure about this, Kurt?” he asks, watching him from a few feet away.

Kurt doesn’t meet his eyes, simply nods and keeps checking over the saddle. He hears Drin sigh and glances over at him as he ducks round to Aera’s chest.

“I have to go after him, I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

That stops him. He looks up, confused. Drin moves closer and bows his head.

“What do you mean?” Kurt asks.

“I know that you have to save him. I know—why.”

Kurt feels his stomach tense, and turns back to his dragon. Aera’s muscles are stiff too, as if she knows just what’s going through his head. “I have to save him because he’s my student and under my charge and we can’t afford to lose him.”

“That’s true,” agrees Drin. “But there are other reasons, too.” He pauses, and Kurt looks at his old mentor properly. He may look tired and anxious, but there’s something warm in his eyes. “We would all put more than our lives on the line to save those we love.”

Kurt’s breath catches; he has no idea how he knows, but he _knows_. He’s still not even sure of the extent of his feelings towards Blaine, but he feels they may be headed in— _that_ direction. He watches Drin for a while, worried he might catch a look of disapproval or disgust, but all he can see is warm acceptance.

His mouth twitches, and he nods, grateful. Drin nods back at him, drops a heavy hand onto his shoulder—a silent gesture of _good luck_ —and leaves the room.

“I’ll send reinforcements up as soon as possible,” he says on his way through the door.

Kurt takes a deep breath and turns to Aera. “Well,” he says. “It’s up to us now.”

Aera looks at him solemnly. _Don’t be afraid, Kurt_.

He smiles at her and lays a hand on her neck. “I’m not.”

*

It takes them four entire days to fly North—and that’s with very brief respites, only stopping for relieving themselves, short naps, and catching a bite to eat (literally, in Aera’s case). By the evening of the fourth day, they’re at the border village. Or at least, what remains of the village.

The houses are blackened, hollow shells; the streets are littered with debris and charcoaled corpses. Kurt gags, not only at the smell, and covers his nose. He hadn’t realised it was this bad.

They’re only a night’s flight away from King Truos’ fort in southern Barros, but he takes his time at the village, paying his respects to the dead. He only hopes that they can stop this war before it spreads.

They eat outside the city, and sleep for a couple of hours, then Kurt is forcing himself to wake and continue on.

It’s dawn when they reach the fort, a big building of grey stone, high on a hill. They’re careful to fly round and land on the opposite side of the hill to avoid being seen, ducking down under the trees.

Kurt slides off Aera’s back and ties his sword belt on over his chainmail and tunic. “You know the signal,” he says. “Wait for me in the woods by the castle. I’ll try and get Blaine out and get him to you, but if you hear it—you know what to do.”

She nods and nudges his cheek with the tip of her snout. _Good luck_.

He pats her once and heads off around the hill.

He’s glad of the forest as he gets closer to the fort, concealing his approach with its heavy branches and thick foliage. He’s not sure how he’s actually going to get in—there’s a bare strip of land two hundred yards wide between the treeline and the grey stone. Even if he makes it across without being seen, he still will have to climb over the wall.

He creeps through the undergrowth, footsteps falling soft on the leaf-ridden earth. There’s a strip of trees near the back of the fort that come closer to the wall—he’ll make for there and hope.

He runs as silently as possible through the trees, keeping a few feet back from the edge so that he can’t be seen from the fort. The rising sun glows golden on the tips of the towers at the four corners of the fort.

Suddenly, his foot catches on a branch or something, and he trips, going down onto his hands and knees. Cursing, he brushes back the leaves of the bushes he had just run through, trying to find the branch his foot is stuck under—

And is pulled up short. His foot isn’t stuck under a branch at all. Instead, it’s a metal rung, the kind you would find on the lid of a trapdoor.

He yanks his foot out, brushes away the leaves covering it, and looks down at what is indeed a trapdoor in the forest floor. There’s no way there would be one here unless it leads right into the castle.

He tugs on the rung. It’s stiff, and resists for a moment, but then slowly the lid slides off, revealing a dark hole in the ground.

Steeling himself—he hadn’t thought to bring any kind of light with him—Kurt settles his hands on either side of the hole before swinging his legs inside and dropping down into the tunnel.

If this leads him to Blaine, he will endure any dark, dank and disgusting tunnel thrown at him.

The light from the entrance spills down the tunnel a little way, but’s it’s hardly enough to go far. He reaches out and touches the walls on either side, and is relieved to find them dry. He settles his palms down and begins to walk.

He goes slowly, not wanting to trip or cause any loud noises that could echo up the tunnel and into—wherever it leads.

After a few minutes of walking, the tunnel starts going down, and he leans back, unsure of how steep it is. The downhill section only lasts a little while, though, then becomes flat again. He walks for a few more minutes and then is suddenly faced with an abrupt turn. He follows it, and is surprised to find soft light flooding the tunnel a little way ahead.

He hurries forward. The end of the tunnel is blocked by a doorway of metal bars; beyond, a corridor lit by a single candle. He pushes on the bars gently. To his relief, the door opens.

He steps out into the corridor, hesitant. It’s silent. He presumes he’s under the fort.

He moves slowly down the corridor, one hand clasped around the hilt of his sword, the other skimming along the cool stones of the wall. He comes to a bend, and peers around it cautiously.

The corridor opens up ahead, and he sees that the walls are lined with metal bars. The fort prison. The closest cells he can see are empty. With no evidence of everyone else around, he steps cautiously forward. His feet crunch on the hay spilling out through the cell bars, littering the flagstone floor.

There seem to be more cells off down separate branches ahead; he turns left on a whim. He’s just about to sneak down to the next turning when he hears voices ahead.

He plasters himself back against the wall, inching his way along, slowly, slowly, until he can just peer round the corner.

There are a couple of guards in Barrosse dress sitting in front of a cell, a candle stuck in a jar between them, hands on their swords. One of them says something funny and the other laughs. Kurt notices something move in the cell behind them at the sound, and looks up, and—

 _Blaine_. Lying curled up on the floor of the cell, arms wrapped around his legs, but he’s there, he’s only a few feet away and he’s alive and Kurt has been worrying for _days_. He takes a deep breath and ducks back around the corner, mentally planning out his attack.

A couple of minutes later, he draws his sword as quietly as possible. He steadies his breathing, makes sure he’s balanced properly before he throws himself around the corner.

It’s over a lot quicker than he had expected. Both guards are completely taken by surprise. They jump up and fumble with their weapons, but Kurt is too quick. A series of well-placed blows and they hit the ground within seconds, unable to cry out for backup.

Blaine has shuffled over to the edge of the cell, and is gripping the metal hard, looking up at him with wide eyes. Kurt drops to his knees in front of him, reaching in and petting over his cheek and hair, making sure he’s okay.

“Are you—did they—you’re alive—“

“Kurt,” Blaine replies, placing his hand on Kurt’s wrist. “You came for me.”

“Of course I did, you idiot, I couldn’t—“ He huffs in frustration at the thick metal bars separating them and spins around, fumbles in the pockets of the dead guards for the keys. “We need to get you out of there.”

Finally he lays his hand on cool metal and pulls out a large ring of keys. He stands up, and tries about six of them in the lock until he finds the right one and the door grates open.

It’s then that he sees that Blaine’s ankles are chained to the cell, so he hurries over, clumsily inserting key after key until he can find one that fits. Blaine helps him tug them off, and gasps in pain as the metal drags against his skin.

There’s a moment of hesitation, then Blaine sags forwards into Kurt’s arms, and he wraps them around his student’s shoulders, holding him tight to his chest. Blaine clings to him, arms wrapped around his back, face pressed into the crook of his neck. Kurt strokes the hair at the back of his neck gently, just able to breathe in the smell of _Blaine_ in his hair under all the dirt and sweat. He feels so small against him, and Kurt wants to keep him there forever.

They hold each other for a long while, until finally Blaine starts shifting and Kurt releases him, holding out a hand to help him to his feet. Blaine stumbles as he stands, falling against Kurt’s chest, but Kurt just holds onto his elbows gently and helps him right himself. With a pang, his sees that Blaine’s face is wet with tears.

He turns to leave the cell, keys grasped in his hand, but feels Blaine tugging at his wrist. Confused and worried that Blaine might still be chained up somewhere, he turns back around.

And is met with Blaine’s lips on his.

Kurt stiffens, surprised, but then Blaine’s hand cups his jaw and his fingers stroke over it gently, and Kurt realises—Blaine is kissing him. _Blaine_ is _kissing_ him. He thinks of all the times he’s had to restrain himself, to tell himself _no_ , to keep their relationship as professional as possible. He thinks of the heated glances from Blaine, the slack of his face as he came calling out Kurt’s name, the feel of their bare chests pressed together. And he thinks of the deep, sickening fear he’s felt since he saw Blaine taken in the courtyard, that he could be hurt or even dead, and thinks, _fuck it_.

He gasps, and kisses back passionately, sucking Blaine’s bottom lip into his mouth and moaning quietly around it. Blaine inhales shakily through his nose and grips his waist, kissing him deeply.

They pull apart after a few seconds, faces close, gasping into the air between them.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” says Blaine, starting to pull away, but Kurt grabs him and kisses him again, fierce and brief.

“Don’t be,” he breathes. “Please, please don’t be sorry about this.”

Blaine looks at him, still a little uncertain, but nods, and pecks his lips once more.

“Let’s go,” he says.

They exit the cell quietly, hand in hand, and Kurt glances up and down the row. It appears empty. He steps over the guards’ bodies on the ground, hoping that they won’t be found until they’re out of the tunnel or farther. He leads Blaine towards where he remembers the entrance to the tunnel to be, glancing around each corner carefully.

They’re nearly there when he hears a shout from behind them, so he yanks on Blaine’s hand and runs towards the metal bars at the entrance. He’s about to reach when suddenly there’s a guard in front of him, sword raised and angry, appearing from seemingly nowhere. Kurt jumps back and realises there’s a concealed corridor next to the door into the tunnel.

He tosses Blaine the sword strapped to his back, then draws his own just in time to deflect the blow from the guard. He swipes for his legs, then twists his wrist up, bringing his sword around quickly to land with a crunch on the man’s ribs. He thanks the stars that the guard isn’t wearing armour and finishes him off with a stab to the chest.

Behind him, Blaine is facing off a couple of guards, sword held in both hands and legs trembling slightly. Kurt guesses he hasn’t had a lot to eat recently and jumps in to help him.

They finish off the two guards, but then there’s another shout from behind and a group of soldiers emerge from the concealed entrance. “Run!” Kurt shouts, and they take off through the prison, passing cell after cell. The place is a maze, so Kurt grabs Blaine’s hand to make sure that they don’t get separated.

The only way out now is through the fort, so he looks for a door or a flight of stairs as he runs. Finally, he sees a little corridor lit by torchlight, and pulls Blaine into it, sprinting down it as fast as possible and up the spiral staircase at the end.

Blaine is lagging behind him; he can feel the tug on his arm as he strives to keep up. At the top of the stairs, they find themselves in an empty room, two more corridors leading off.

He’s about to tug Blaine down the nearest one when a group of soldiers nearly fifteen strong emerges from the other, armed with swords and crossbows. They’re quick to surround them, and a couple more appear from the staircase, blocking their escape back down into the prison.

Kurt glances at Blaine and nods slightly before dropping his sword to the floor and holding his hands up in the air. Blaine follows suit, panting heavily, standing close to him.

The soldiers move closer and one of them pokes Kurt’s chest with the tip of his sword. “Let’s take ‘em to the king,” he says, voice gruff.

They’re escorted through the fort, and though Kurt tries to remember every turn so they can find their way back to the tunnel later, it’s hard when he’s got a drawn crossbow pressed to his back.

They’re pushed out into a large, vaulted room—obviously the main hall. There are a few tables at the sides of the room and a cold stone throne at the top. Before it, King Truos is pacing, face haggard and angry.

The guards push him to his knees in front of the throne, and Blaine sags down next to him. He keeps his hands in the air.

The king’s feet come into view, well-made leather boots scuffed with years of wear. He breathes carefully, and sees another pair of feet move next to the king’s.

Suddenly, there’s a hand under his chin, and his face is jerked up. He gasps.

Sebastian Smythe is smirking down at him.

Kurt’s eyes widen as he stares up at the knight, who is wearing the black and yellow of Barros. “Wha—“ he hisses, but Sebastian jerks his chin again and he shuts up.

“This is him,” Sebastian says softly, turning to the king. “Sir Hummel.” He sneers at Kurt one more time and releases his chin.

The king steps forward, sizing him up. He watches him silently for a while, and then looks at Sebastian. “I must say I’m impressed, Smythe,” he says. “Your little plan worked.”

Kurt freezes. Plan? Had this all been a trap?

Sebastian inclines his head. “I told you the boy would bring him running,” he says.

King Truos smiles—his grin ugly—and bent down to look at Blaine. “We haven’t got much use for him anymore, then,” he says. He glances at a nearby guard. “Take him away. You can do with him as you please. But keep him alive.”

Blaine gasps, and Kurt’s head shoots up. “No!” he shouts, scrambling over to Blaine and putting an arm around his shoulders. Blaine whimpers. “Please!”

Truos steps forward towards them. “You want to keep him?” he asks, derision clear in his voice. “You would prefer that little boy over my son?”

_Son?_

Truos must see the look of confusion on his face, because he smiles scornfully and goes to sit on his throne, holding a hand up at the guard moving forward to take Blaine. Kurt is momentarily relieved.

“That’s right,” continues the king. “Sebastian is mine. Surely it must have seemed suspicious to you, for him to disappear from your little… excursion, without any trace?”

Kurt hesitates before nodding reluctantly.

“He came to me. He’s been coming to me every year since he’s been at the Academy, Hummel. How else do you think I would have known about your little student, or your beast’s silly little party?” He scoffs. “You people are ridiculous. You believe that simply because some accords are in place, nothing can harm you. Well I have news for you, rider.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “ _You’re wrong_.”

He settles back into the throne, throwing a leg up over one of the arms. “Of course, it was simple enough. Distract you with a little kerfuffle at the border. Pay one of your king’s men off to have the port clear and the gates open—does the name Vouton ring a bell? Then time everything perfectly to snatch up the boy on your big night, Smythe and my dragon Grief assisting, of course. We knew you’d come running.”

Kurt sits in shock. First Sebastian—then _Vouton_? And Truos had a dragon?

“What are you—why are you doing all this? What do you want with me?” he demands.

Truos laughs. “Hummel, dear. You’re the best rider in your kingdom. With you on our side the nation would fall like dead leaves from a tree.”

“You must be insane if you ever think I would go against my people.”

“Oh, I know. That’s why we’ve got boy-toy here. Sebastian has told me how you feel about him. Of course, we won’t allow you to see him but—“ He pauses, face darkening. “One disobeyed order and we kill him.”

Kurt’s arms tighten around Blaine, heart hammering inside his chest. He can’t—he can’t breathe, he’s panicking, and he can hear the steady quiet whimpers from Blaine. He needs to do something to get them out of here, and fast.

Truos gets up, gestures the guards to keep an eye on them, and leaves through a door at the side of the room with Sebastian.

Kurt thinks, _Now’s my chance_.

He reaches down to his ankle, feeling the knife he has hidden inside his boot. He pulls it out, slowly and carefully, as not to alert the guards to his movement. Then he leans down and whispers in Blaine’s ear, “ _With me_.”

With a cry, Kurt spins around and stands up, flicking the knife at the soldier pointing a crossbow at them. It hits him bang in the neck and he cries out, crossbow going off and bolt hitting another guard in the chest. Kurt scrambles to get the dead guard’s sword and fights off another, grabbing his weapon and throwing it to Blaine. They stand back-to-back, exchanging blows with several guards at a time, getting increasingly bruised and tired.

Eventually, most of the guards who had been in the hall are either dead or injured on the ground. Kurt leaps up onto the throne, cups his hands around his mouth, and lets out an ear-splitting screech.

He knows it’ll alert anyone else in the fort, but Aera really needs to get here as soon as possible.

He jumps down and gathers Blaine up in his arms, pressing his face into his shoulder and holding him tightly.

“You okay?” he asks when they pull apart.

“Yes, I—I think so,” Blaine. “Just a bit shaken. And tired.”

Kurt nods and picks up a crossbow from a dead soldier, loading it. “What are you doing?” asks Blaine.

“Truos and Sebastian will be back soon. We need to be ready. You should get one too.”

They settle next to the throne, crossbows at the ready, and sure enough, a couple of minutes later the king and his son come running in.

Truos looks at the corpses littering the floor and starts towards them angrily, stopping short when Kurt holds up the crossbow and points it at him. “Stop right there,” he says. He gestures for them to kneel, and they do as instructed. He moves closer, aiming the crossbow at Truos’ head, Blaine doing the same with Sebastian.

“Now,” says Kurt. “Where is your dragon?”

“He’s—he’s out hunting,” Truos replies nervously.

“Really? When is he due back?”

Truos shrugs. “His trips usually take a few days.”

“Good,” says Kurt. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but it seems to be working. “So we’ll wait for him to return. For now, I want you to order all your soldiers to collect their weapons and leave them with me, then return home to their families.”

Truos glares at him, but then nods slowly. “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth.

*

It takes a while, but eventually all the soldiers and guards are unarmed and sent away. Aera oversees the proceedings, growling menacingly at anyone who even tries to step out of line. When Kurt, Blaine, Sebastian and Truos are the only people left at the castle, he can finally breathe a deep sigh of relief.

He ties them up and sits guard over them while Blaine and Aera take a short flight south to see how close their reinforcements are. They return a few hours later with good news and a thunder of dragons.

Drin and the eleven other riders he has brought with him take over, telling Kurt and Blaine to find somewhere to sleep and get some rest.

They cuddle up together on the huge bed in what must be Truos’ room, limbs tangled together, and immediately fall into a deep and very welcome sleep.

*

The journey back home is slower than the journey there, but then they’re finally flying over the Academy, dropping in through the opening at the top of the Rafters and landing with a loud thump on the straw-covered floor. Kurt sags forwards against Aera’s neck and Blaine sags forwards against him.

Truos and Sebastian have been imprisoned. With the help of so many dragons, Grief was trapped on his return from his hunting trip, and taken into custody. The Barrosse army attacking villages in the North has been ordered to retreat. All is right again.

There’s an excited shriek from a sub-room above them. Kurt looks up, and sees Tarron, big and shining and happy, leap down towards them.

Blaine immediately slides off Aera’s back, stumbling as his feet hit the ground, and rushes over to his dragon, flinging his arms around his neck and burying his face in his scales. Kurt smiles fondly at them.

Eventually, he drags himself off the saddle and lets her and Tarron reunite, crowing happily and dancing around each other. He walks over to Blaine and gently takes his hand, and they stand and watch their dragons, laughing together. Blaine leans against him and drops his head onto his shoulder.

After a while, Aera nods to him then up at the sky, and Kurt smiles back at her. She and Tarron immediately take off, shooting up into the air and out into the sunshine.

“Mmm,” says Blaine, turning his face into Kurt’s shoulder and sliding a hand across his waist. “Maybe we should go and celebrate our return too.”

Kurt blushes and pulls back so that he can look at his face. “Blaine _Anderson_ ,” he exclaimes. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Blaine glances off to the side coyly. “Possibly.”

Kurt gapes at him, mock affronted, then grabs his shoulders and pulls him into a deep kiss. “Okay,” he murmurs against his lips. “My bed is bigger.”

Blaine giggles and grabs his hand.

As soon as they’re inside the door to Kurt’s chambers, he pulls Blaine flush against him, kissing him open-mouthed and hungry. Blaine is eager to retaliate, licking into his mouth and wrapping a leg around Kurt’s. “Mm, Kurt,” he breathes. “You taste delicious.”

Kurt laughs because he’s been travelling for days and he’s fairly certain he does _not_ taste delicious, but it’s nice of Blaine to say so. “Come on,” he mutters, fingers on Blaine’s waist. “Bedroom.”

Blaine giggles and bounds happily into the room, immediately dropping onto the bed and tugging on his boots. Kurt follows at a slower pace, unbuckling his belt and shrugging his chainmail off into a heap on the floor.

“Gosh, you actually are five years old,” he says as Blaine bounces across the bed to him, expression open and eager.

“You like it, though,” says Blaine, eyes teasing. “That I’m younger.”

Kurt sighs and sits on the side of his bed to take off his boots as well. Blaine plasters himself against his back and immediately starts kissing at the skin behind his ear. “You’re ri—ght, _ah_ _Blaine_ , I do.”

Blaine giggles and tugs at his shoulders. “Come on.”

Kurt kicks off his last boot and turns around, crawling onto the bed and over Blaine, forcing him to shuffle up the mattress on his back. Blaine immediately curves a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down into a heated kiss. He moans against Kurt’s mouth and cards his fingers through his hair, sending shivers of delight down his spine.

“Mm,” says Kurt breathlessly. “You sure you’ve never kissed anyone before? Because you’re pretty good at that.”

“Nope, only you.” Blaine kisses him again and tugs at the front of his leather shirt. “C’mon, too many clothes.”

“Okay, okay.” Kurt sits back on his heels between Blaine’s legs and undoes the laces on his shirt before pulling it over his head, leaving only his cotton undershirt behind. Blaine sits forwards and slides his hands up underneath the hem, over the skin of Kurt’s waist and stomach.

“God, Kurt, you’re so soft,” he mutters. “But like—muscly underneath. Soft and hard.” He looks up and kisses him. “I like it.”

Kurt tugs his cotton shirt off and tosses it somewhere across the room, then immediately returns his focus to Blaine. He runs his fingers through thick curls and bends down to kiss at Blaine’s jaw, mouthing his way down to the top of his shirt. Blaine pushes him away playfully and yanks it off, leaving them both shirtless.

Kurt catches Blaine’s mouth in a kiss, laying him down against the soft sheets and hovering above him, holding himself up on the pillows. Blaine grunts and pulls at his shoulders until their chests are pressed together, skin-to-skin contact sending a flare of arousal through Kurt’s body.

He’s hard, straining against his leather pants, and Blaine rocks his hips up against him, moaning loudly. “Kurt—ah! Kurt—“

“Mmm, yeah?” gasps Kurt, sucking a series of marks down Blaine’s neck. He feels him pushing at his shoulder and leans back a bit so he can see his face. “What?”

Blaine looks so, so, innocent right then. Kurt knows he’s doing it because he knows he likes it, but still—wow. “Kurt, can I ask—“

“What? Anything you want, baby. I’ll give it to you.”

Blaine stares at him, eyes wide. “Want you to fuck me,” he says softly.

Kurt gasps, a wave of arousal shooting down his spine, so intense that he has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, Blaine still looks innocent, but there’s a rather overt hint of teasing to it as well.

“Yes,” he’s quick to say, “yes, yes, Blaine, God, want to—want to fuck you so bad.”

“So do it,” says Blaine.

He scrambles to get his pants and underwear off, kicking them onto the floor and leaving him naked, dick erect. He wraps his hand around it, blessed relief, and looks at Blaine, who is staring at his cock with his mouth open.

“Like what you see?” asks Kurt, and Blaine nods, eyes wide.

“C’mon, pants off,” he urges, and Blaine slides off the bed to tug off his pants. He pulls down his underwear, and Kurt stares at the perfect globes of his ass in the light from the window.

Blaine turns around shyly, his cock red and hard. Kurt swallows and holds out a hand for him to join him on the bed. Blaine goes willingly.

It’s more serious now, a little less playful giggling. Blaine lies out on his back against the pillows while Kurt gets the little pot of oil from the drawer and sets it on the edge of his night table. Then he kneels between Blaine’s spread thighs, both of them breathing unsteadily.

Kurt leans down and kisses Blaine, soft and sweet, and brushes his fingertips gently down the expanse of his neck. Blaine sighs contently.

Their kissing gets more intense, and Kurt trails his fingertips down Blaine’s chest, stopping to rub over his nipples. Blaine gasps and his hips jolt. “Tha—that feels good,” he says.

Kurt smiles and lowers his mouth to cover a nipple, flicking the bud with his tongue before sucking on it, hard. “Ku—urt,” gasps Blaine, hips rocking up and brushing their cocks together. Kurt moves across to the other nipple, and gives it the same treatment.

Blaine’s cock is already leaking precome onto his stomach, the tip purple. Kurt wraps his fingers around it gently, marvelling at his pale skin against the flush of Blaine’s, and Blaine whines, hips bucking up.

Kurt strokes up and down a few times, the fingers of his other hand trailing down Blaine’s thigh. “God, Kurt, if you don’t stop that I’m going to— _ahh_ —come,” Blaine moans.

“Go ahead,” says Kurt. “It’ll make it easier after.”

Blaine sucks in a deep breath and Kurt starts pumping his fist faster, leaning forward to kiss him. Blaine writhes underneath him for a few minutes, panting loudly, until he’s gripping Kurt’s back and bucking his hips up and coming all over his belly and Kurt’s fist.

Kurt strokes him through it, then leans back when he’s done, picking up the pot on the night stand. Blaine’s chest is heaving, red-flushed skin striped with thick pearly white. Kurt aches to be inside him.

“Okay,” says Kurt, putting the pot precariously on the mattress beside them. “Are you ready, can I start fingering you open?”

Blaine squeaks and nods, spreading his legs wider and exposing the pucker of his ass. Kurt licks his lips subconsciously and dips his fingers into the oil, coating them liberally.

He takes his time stretching Blaine. He knows that this is his first time, and he doesn’t want to hurt him or make him uncomfortable. Blaine moans as he inserts his third finger, pushing his head back into the pillow, face scrunched up in pleasure.

“That feel good?” asks Kurt.

“Yes—so good, Kurt, can you—“ Kurt brushes over his prostate again and Blaine mewls, one hand grabbing onto Kurt’s thigh and squeezing it tight. “I never—ah—never thought it would feel this good.”

Kurt chuckles and moves closer, forcing Blaine’s legs to spread wider. He moves his fingers in and out, scissoring them a little inside, until Blaine is squeezing the base of his already hardened cock and scratching his nails down his thigh.

“Okay, I can, please, I’m ready—“

“You sure?”

Blaine nods frantically, looking up at him with his eyes half-lidded. Kurt wipes his fingers off and lines himself up, shuffling forward so he can put his hands on the pillow on either side of Blaine’s head. “You ready?”

“Yes.”

He pushes in excruciatingly slowly until the head of his cock slips past Blaine’s rim and the slide is easier. Still, he inches forward, giving Blaine time to breathe, his eyelids fluttering. He strokes his fingers gentle over Blaine’s hair, watching the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows, and bottoms out.

Kurt stops moving, a bead of sweat dripping down his arm. Blaine’s eyes are closed. “Tell me when you’re ready,” Kurt says softly.

Blaine slides a hand down his back and over his ass, squeezing a cheek gently. “Okay,” he says. “You can move.”

Kurt rocks slowly at first, fucking him deeply. Blaine moans and leans up to catch his lips. Kurt responds happily, sucking on Blaine’s upper lip and slipping his tongue into his mouth. Blaine cards a hand through his hair and squeezes his ass again, then pulls back a little to whisper, “Faster.”

Kurt pushes Blaine up the bed as his movements quicken. Sliding a hand down to Blaine’s knee, he hitches it up to his chest, changing the angle a bit and allowing him to go deeper. Blaine groans, reaching down to grasp his cock. Kurt takes this as a good sign, so he grabs Blaine’s other leg and hooks both over his shoulders.

Blaine is bent almost in half, letting out breathy little sighs with each deep thrust of Kurt’s cock. He hooks his ankles together behind Kurt’s head as he leans up to kiss him again—all the training had certainly made him flexible.

Kurt fucks him harder and faster and Blaine is crying out, precome dribbling from his dick onto his stomach. “Ku—Kurt—I’m gonna—gonna come—“

“Come, baby. Say my name.”

Blaine’s eyes fly open and their gazes lock. Kurt gives an extra hard thrust, tipping Blaine over the edge until he’s digging his head into the pillow, letting out a loud cry of “Kurt!”

The sight alone would have been enough to set Kurt off, but the sound—it’s the same sound he heard that night weeks ago, and the thought that now he has Blaine underneath him, and crying out his name because he told him to—

His hips shudder, and he presses his face into Blaine’s neck, whimpering. “Blaine—I—ah, God—Blaine, I love you—“

He comes hard, grinding into Blaine’s ass, and promptly collapses on top of him.

*

The sun is shining, birds are singing, and a fresh breeze is drifting on the air. Kurt gently traces his fingers over the shape of Blaine’s brand, watching a dragonfly flit above the water.

They’re down by a calm patch of river a few miles south of the city, cloaks spread out on the grass and the remains of their picnic around them. Blaine is lying back with his head against Tarron’s leg, and Kurt is lying with his head against Blaine’s belly.

He sighs happily, and turns his head so he can squint up at Blaine’s face. His student and lover’s skin is a warm gold in the sunlight, hazel eyes shining, and he looks absolutely beautiful. Kurt tells him so.

Blaine blushes and ducks his head. “I think you’re pretty beautiful, too, you know,” he says quietly, tracing a finger over Kurt’s eyebrows. Kurt closes his eyes contently. They lie in silence for a while, just touching each other softly, until Kurt feels Blaine shift his legs and opens his eyes.

“Did you mean it?” asks Blaine.

“Mean what?”

Blaine glances at Aera and Tarron are sleeping with their snouts pressed closed together. “What you said to me. When—when you came.”

Kurt thinks back to the previous afternoon, and realises with a jolt what he had breathed out into the skin of Blaine’s neck. He hasn’t even thought about it since then.

“I did,” he replies, not wanting to meet Blaine’s eyes for fear of rejection. But then there are fingers lifting his chin, and Blaine is smiling at him as if he had just fetched him the moon.

“I love you, too,” he says softly, and leans down to kiss him.


End file.
